


Duty through Ice and Fire

by Moach57



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Exploration of ASOIAF Setting And Lore, House Lannister, House Stark, Original Character(s), Original House, War of the Five Kings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2020-12-01 19:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20870597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moach57/pseuds/Moach57
Summary: When Jack dies in a hiking accident, he thought it would be the end of his story. However, he wakes up in a world he previously believes is fictional, and he quickly learns he was not the first to come to the land of Ice and Fire.





	1. Prologue

The wind dominated his very being.

It pierced every exposed area on his body like cold, _freezing_ knives.

The cold had worked its way under his pathetic windbreaker and wool coat what felt like a lifetime ago, and he worried that he wouldn’t recognize the feeling of warmth if he ever got to experience it again.

His entire world was made up of the few feet he could see around him, hemmed in by the swirling snow and the great white that lay beyond.

“Mind over matter…mind over matter…mind over matter,” he muttered to himself over and over again, using the trite saying as a marching beat, a lifeline one could say, as he struggled through his white hell.

As if to accentuate the point, he was delivered briefly from his torment at the hands of cold by a cry that pierced through the impenetrable snowy walls around him and brought a torment of the heart.

“JAAAAACK”

“I’m coming!”- he tried to respond, but he wasn’t sure if the sound even left his lips as he furiously turned about and tried to determine the direction from which the cry had originated.

During his search, the idle thought struck him that if it had been as clear now as it was when he and his brother had decided to set out for their hike, he might have been able to see the trail up the mountainside, high above him.

As it was now, Jack was sightless in his search for his brother, who had tumbled into the whiteness about-

_How long had it been_?

Jack did not have time to think about time as he interrupted his own thoughts to plunge into what he deemed the most appropriate direction to find his brother before it was too late: forward.

As he trudged forward, Jack welcomed the creeping numbness he felt spreading up his arms and legs; he had long since lost feeling in his face. Behind this came an odd sense of warmth which he both welcomed and feared.

The stark whiteness in front of him was interrupted by a dark, oblong shape.

As Jack forced his legs through the deep snow, he heard a small, weak cry from the shape.

“Jack...you came”

“I always do Mark, you know that.”

The only reason Jack knew that he was now kneeling at his brother’s side was that he could now see Mark’s broken and bloodied face.

“I took…”

Mark paused as he tried to catch his breath as the wind cut between them.

“...quite the fall, brother.”

He tried to follow up his statement with a laugh, but only a cough escaped his lips.

Jack didn’t respond to his brother as he glanced around their position, looking for any form of shelter. Heavy snow tossed about by the howling wind was the only sight that greeted him. He didn't know what to do, but he knew that they couldn’t stay where they were and survive for much longer.

“Can you get up Mark? Can you walk?” Jack asked as he tried to help his brother sit up.

Mark only answered by looking pointedly at his legs. Jack followed his gaze and somehow felt even more chilled by the sight that greeted him. Mark’s legs were twisted and broken at unnatural angles. He would not be standing, let alone walking, through the storm anytime soon.

For a second, Jack considered carrying his brother back to the path and eventually finding shelter, but dismissed the thought as he remembered his struggle to even reach him.

Jack glanced back at Mark’s face and noticed that his brother was staring aimlessly ahead of them.

“Mark”

His brother continued breathing heavily and staring ahead.

“Mark, listen to me,” he repeated as he snapped his fingers in front of his brother’s face.

Slowly Mark’s eyes drifted into contact with his own. Jack did not see any worry or determination on his brother’s face, only fatigue. The cold air burned his lungs when he tried to talk, but it didn't bother him anymore. He leaned as close as he could to his brother to save his breath and so the wind wouldn’t steal his words, but Mark beat him to the punch as he whispered in Jack’s ear:

“You know as well as I that we are both going to die. I can’t walk and even if I could, I doubt we would be able to make it back to the path, let alone find shelter in time. We aren't dressed for this shit, Jack. I know you never know when to give up, but I’m telling you that now is the time. I just want to go out in peace, sitting next to my little brother.”

Jack leaned back and gave their surroundings one last desperate look. The snow still swirled around them, the wind still clawed and cut at them, and he couldn’t see anything but indistinct whiteness. He wasn’t even comforted by the sight of the dark shadows of trees he knew were surrounding them.

_Mark was right_.

Jack slowly turned to face him again. He felt the tears that had already frozen to his face as he gave his brother a shallow nod. Mark responded with a weak grin as he slowly patted the ground beside him.

Jack slowly shifted from kneeling to sitting, becoming slowly aware of the fact that he could no longer feel where his legs were. He felt his brother’s arm rest across his shoulders. Although he should have been freezing, Jack felt warm. Relaxed. At peace.

He distantly felt Mark lean heavily against his shoulder and he pitched his weight to keep them both upright. Jack glanced down and noticed he was no longer shaking.

“You know I was the one who dented your car in high school, Jack.”

He felt himself trying to laugh at his brother’s whispered confession.

“Well, Mark, I was the one who threw out those baseball cards you got when you were eight.”

Mark made to playfully shove him, but all Jack felt was the slight shuffle of his brother’s arm.

“I love you, man.”

Mark didn’t respond. Jack used the last of his energy to shift them so they were both lying down.

He didn’t feel the wind’s bite as it blew snow over their bodies. In the unchanged light he didn’t register the growing black haze in his vision. His only thoughts were of warm memories. He didn’t even notice when he closed his eyes for the last time.

————————————————————

Where he expected only blackness, and whatever comes after, Jack began to experience memories. The memories were unlike any experience he had in his life, but for some reason he felt like they were his. Jack’s consciousness felt like it was split in two: his own, older and familiar, and a new one, not unfamiliar but strange. This new consciousness was young, and yet was imparting memories, his own, he began to think, unto his older consciousness.

Jack remembered running along the hallways, battlements, and wards of a black stone castle. _Home_.

He remembered watching in awe as men drilled in formation, surrounded by those same black stone walls and shouting instructors. _Father’s men_.

He remembered sitting in a very disorganized solar, listening to a man wrapped in grey robes and a chain as he taught Jack how to read. _Luca the Maester_.

He remembered watching as formidable men sparred in the outer ward. The men fought with strength and speed, but what made them formidable was the fluidity of their movements. They slashed, parried, and dodged their way around the fenced-in sparring area with incredible grace and frightening speed. The fighters’ movements flowed like a beautiful dance, each well-practiced move of the sword and body wasted no effort and was perfectly timed with the movement of the other fighter. The men were dressed in identical black wool gambesons and breeches. They were only differentiated by blood red heart tree faces stitched on the shoulders of their clothes. On one man was solemn face of his own home, while the other wore the surprised face of the town nearby. These men were clearly of the old gods, but he could tell they also worshipped at the altar of the sword. _Northern Knights_.

He remembered kneeling in reverent silence beside and slightly behind a tall man with thick, dark brown hair tinged grey. He could not see more of the man as they both had their heads bowed. They were surrounded by many ash, fur, ironwood, and oak trees; but in front of them stood a hauntingly beautiful bone white tree, with gnarled, twisted roots and branches. The tree had solemn face carved into its trunk, its mouth set in a firm line and its blood red eyes staring straight ahead. _Praying in the godswood with father_.

He remembered a name. His name. _Artos_.

Artos was the name the other children called as they raced him across the courtyard. It was the name by which the maester called on him, and was the name used when his father addressed him quietly but firmly. It was his new identity. He felt the name Jack slowly slip from significance in his mind, as it became more memory than reality. As he was inundated by more moments in Artos’ life, he felt all of his memories under the name Jack slowly shift from his reality to his previous life in a long distant time and place. He not only experienced the thoughts, feelings, desires, and memories of Artos, he felt them. He was Artos now.

Above all the other images, moments, and feelings, there was one memory that stood paramount for Artos. The memory was cloaked in the warmth of love and pride, and was as much a part of him as his new name. Artos couldn’t have been older than five or six at the time, and he had just experienced his first dinner with his family’s vassal lords seated at his father’s right as the heir. The great hall had been slowly clearing out for some time, as the plates of northern food were emptied, and as mugs of ale were refilled. The roaring hearths spread their warm light throughout the large chamber, casting empty cluttered tables and knocked over chairs in gold-red light and shadow. Rain pattered on the dark windows set high in the walls as servants scuttered to and fro, working hard to clean the great room.

Even if it was but a memory, Artos could feel his father’s warm and rough hand as he placed it on his shoulder. When his father did this, Artos noticed that the hall was empty, the servants having finished their work. His father’s face was mottled in shadow and light as he turned and spoke.

“You were nearly falling asleep near the end, my son” he said as his face broke into a small smile. All Artos could remember was feeling joy that the feast was over.

His father’s smile quickly fell as he continued:

“Do you understand why I made you stay?”

He sleepily nodded his head as he responded.

“I must learn how to conduct myself in front of the other lords.”

“Aye boy, you are correct. But there is more to it than that. Come, we will continue this in the comfort of my solar.” his father replied, as the same smile from before returned to his rough, weathered face. The smile highlighted his father’s deep green eyes as they gazed at him lovingly, eyes that Artos knew he shared with his father. As he helped Artos from his half slumbering position in his chair, his father spoke once again.

“I know the hour is late, but as my father told me, and his father told him, I must tell you the story of our house after your first feast seated as my heir. There will be no secrets shared, but a man must learn of his family from his father.”

As his father guided him down the darkened halls of the sleeping castle, Artos wondered what stories his father would tell. He tried to think of all the family stories he had heard from the servants, guardsmen, and knights that had stayed in his home. He only remembered the stories of war, as all young boys did. After they ascended the curving stairs, Artos was interrupted from his thoughts as his father pulled him into the solar.

Just as in the great hall, the fire that roared in the hearth greeted them. Candles had been lit, and they cast the chamber in a light much more welcoming than the wild and roaming light in the great hall. As they walked toward the chairs set in front of the hearth, Artos took stock of his father’s solar. To the right of the doorway stood several dark ironwood bookshelves, heavy with tomes of tax, harvest, and all other records required for running a large lordship. On the other side of the door was the table where his father led private meals with his advisors. The hearth cast its flame from the left wall of the solar, disrupting the gentle light of the candles and throwing parts of the room into shadows. The shadows of the great chairs in front of the fire danced on the large gilded ironwood desk set in front of the back wall of the room. No light showed through the large windows behind the desk. On the far right wall hung a tapestry depicting a large black and white striped shadowcat. The large cat seemed to ripple and move in the flame light, its blood red eyes and fangs gleaming.

“I see you are as enamored with that tapestry as I am.” His father’s voice broke the silence between them as he moved to stand beside Artos.

“The flames make it come alive.”

Artos, still entranced, only nodded his head in response.

“As it does in tapestry form, so it does in reality. The shadowcat creates awe just as much as it creates fear. All men and beasts fear the shadowcat, for it can strike out against any. Brandon Snow knew exactly what a shadowcat was when he chose it as our sigil.”

As his father spoke, he gently led Artos to the chairs in front of the hearth on the other side of the solar.

From his chair, Artos looked upon his father, who was still standing and staring intently into the fire. The solemn red face stitched on his shoulders and the dark steel hilt of his sword glinted as he turned to face Artos.

For a moment, only the crackle of the fire broke the silence between them. Artos was fighting another wave of drowsiness when his father finally spoke.

“Artos, what are our house words?”

“Strength is our duty!” he replied with all the enthusiasm of a young boy pretending to be a man.

“Good, do you know why?”

Artos remembered that this question confused him. For all his young life, he had heard the words, but never the reasons behind them. They were just the house words because he had learned them as such.

“No father.” he replied in a much weaker voice.

“I did not expect you to boy, do not be disappointed in yourself. That’s why I’m keeping you from your bed tonight.” He paused as he unbuckled his sword belt and sat down in the chair beside Artos.

Artos’ eyes followed the sheathed sword in his father’s hands. His father noticed his gaze and let out a small dry laugh.

“I was of the same mind, when I sat where you sit and my father sat here. All I wanted to hear about was the blade. Don’t you worry, we will get to the blade.”

“Then what is this about?” he heard himself asking.

Instead of answering Artos’ question directly, his father instead shifted into a more comfortable position in his chair and began to speak with a much more formal tone, his lord’s tone.

“In the millenia before the conquest of Aegon and his dragons, the North was ruled by the Kings of Winter named Stark. Each of the seven kingdoms were ruled in a similar way, and they often squabbled and fought wars with each other.”

Artos loved to imagine these mystical old kings, and as his father talked, he pictured cold fierce Kings of Winter, defeating all their foes in great battles.

“So,” his father continued, “when the dragon king sent ravens across all the seven kingdoms, telling them to bend the knee or be destroyed, most of the kings were enraged, and began brokering alliances and raising their banners. But not the Starks. King Torrhen Sta-”

Artos had perked his head up at the mention of his father’s name and the man had noticed.

“Aye, my namesake, King Torrhen Stark, believed that the North would be ignored until it was the last to be dealt with. They had thrown back the Andals, and dragons would be no different. Foolish, I know, but they had never faced dragons. Although many of the North shared this opinion, King Torrhen’s brother, Brandon, did not. Legend says that after Aegon’s raven arrived in Winterfell, Brandon went to the godswood to pray. Three days and three nights later, he walked into the Court of Winter, in front of his kingly brother, and claimed the gods had given him a vision of the dragons. We know that the king had his court cleared of people, and that the brothers had a long conversation about the visions, however, neither brother ever told what was spoken of in that room. What we do know, what has been passed down from father to son as we are doing, is that King Torrhen trusted his brother, as the old gods did, to do whatever was necessary to protect the North. The next day, a raven was sent to Aegon, and an alliance between wolves and dragons was born.”

His father paused to take a sip of wine from a goblet Artos hadn’t noticed. He spoke as his lips twisted into a wry smile.

“If you are too tired to listen we can continue this tomorrow.”

“No father, no I can stay up, I promise!”

Arto’s felt his hair being ruffled softly by his father’s rough hands.

“We will continue then, but Artos,” he said as his green eyes met Artos’, “Never make a promise so lightly.”

His father cleared his throat and continued. “As the new moon rose on the year of Aegon’s landing in Westeros, Brandon Snow sailed south on Manderly ships packed to the brim with 3,000 of the second and bastard sons of the North. They met Aegon and his banners on the highest of the three great hills near the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, where the Red Keep now stands. It was there that Brandon carried King Torrhen’s terms, and it was there that an agreement was made. King Torrhen would give up his crown and become the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but he would keep all of his lands and vassals. Our ancestor negotiated trade deals, relaxed tithes and taxes, and grain shipments for winter. The North’s new king also agreed to help fund the building several new castles on the North’s west coast,” After his last statement, Arto’s father gave him a broad smile as he gestured broadly about the solar, “including Breaktyde.”

“Brandon joined his army with Aegon’s, and together they marched on Harrenhal. Twice on the southern shores of the God’s Eye did the forces of King Harren the Black attempt to stop Aegon’s march, and twice they were thrown back. In the second attempt, Brandon led a surprise northern charge which pushed the forces led by Harren’s sons into the lake, where they were killed by the Balerion the Black Dread’s fire. They were met under the great walls of Harrenhal by the armies of the riverlords led by the Tullys, who had decided Aegon’s rule was much preferred to the rule of the evil King Harren. Together they witnessed as dragonfire tore apart and melted what was once the greatest castle in the land, and together they realized that no man, castle, or army was safe from the dragons. From there, Brandon’s host marched with Aegon against the Kings of the Rock and Reach. In honor of the North’s early submission and support, King Aegon placed his host under the command of Brandon, with Lord Jon Mooton being placed in second command. Brandon and Lord Mooton stood firm with the Targaryen forces against the larger host, and Aegon and his sisters burned their enemies from above with their dragons.”

The thought of dragons burning large armies and reducing great castles to ruin simultaneously terrified and amazed Artos. He shuffled nervously and stared at his father with wide eyes. He remembered that at the time, most of the other details in his father’s story had gone over his head. However, he had realized the importance of what was being said, so he didn’t stop his father to ask questions.

Perhaps his father realized this, because as Artos shifted, his father looked away from the fire and smiled fondly at him.

“I keep forgetting how young you are son. Most of this is for the maesters to teach you when you are older. What is important for you to know is that strength does not always mean strength in arms. No one knows what would have happened if the Starks had marched to war against King Aegon and his dragons, but I cannot imagine it would have been good for the North. King Torrhen and his brother recognized that their duty was to their people, and not to their pride. By allying themselves with the dragons, they were able to gain powerful friends, and protect our people, land, and culture.”

His father once again turned his gaze to the fire and continued his story.

“After that great battle, Brandon Snow decided that his time in the south was coming to a close. He had no desire for any further glory, and he had already accomplished what was necessary for the safety and prosperity of the North. However, there was one more surprise waiting for him before he returned to his homeland with his men. Unbeknownst to Brandon, King Aegon and Lord Torrhen had been sending ravens to each other. On the morning of their departure, King Aegon called Brandon to the front of their combined armies and the gathered lords, and had him kneel. Once Brandon was on his knees, the King declared that he and Lord Torrhen had come to the agreement that Brandon Snow would be legitimized and authorized to start a new noble family in the North. In addition, they agreed that Brandon and his heirs would be Lords of the largest castle planned on the west coast, with the others going to Brandon’s future vassals.”

His father paused and looked at him. His green eyes were twinkling in the firelight and he looked like he was holding back a grin.

“And what name did Brandon choose for his new family?”

“Vader!” Artos called back enthusiastically.

“Aye. No one knows why he chose that name, and he never gave any reasons. But it is my name and it is your name, and we keep it with pride.”

“When he returned with his host to the North, Brandon was yet again surprised when he discovered the generosity of the lands gifted to him by his brother. He was now the Lord and Warden of the Western Shore, with lands stretching north to the tip of Sea Dragon Point, east in the Wolfswood to Glover and Tallhart holdings, south to the Ryswell lands along the Winding Forks River, and west the the Sunset Sea. Lord Torrhen knew that Brandon would not only care for his lands, but also for the North as a whole, and he trusted Brandon with the power that his new titles and lands granted. Many lords thought the land was useless, that Torrhen was putting his brother out to pasture to grow old and die. But while many laughed behind his back and called him names like “Brandon Lord of the Barrens” and “Warden of the Wastes”, Brandon saw great potential in his new land. Sea Dragon Point itself held deep forests, cut with rivers and lakes, and plenty of wildlife. The coastline had plenty of natural harbors and coves, and his land to the south had plentiful grazing and crop growing land. There were iron deposits among the hills near the twin lakes, and plenty of sea life to harvest. Where other lords saw a sparsely populated wasteland, Brandon saw a land rich in natural resources and opportunity.”

“So, after months of planning with his brother in Winterfell, Lord Brandon Vader travelled to his new holdings. Along with him came a large group of builders, laborers, and peasant settlers. They were not alone, however, as much of the host that Brandon had led south decided to follow him again, with their families in tow, to the west. Brandon chose his new vassal lords from these men, those who had served as his lieutenants in battle would now help him develop and rule his new lands. Lord Brandon spent the rest of his life raising castles, courting settlers, and developing his lands. He helped build several ports, connecting the North with the rest of the west coast of Westeros. However, his focus wasn't solely on his own lands. Can you think of anything Brandon did to strengthen the North as a whole?”

Artos was caught unaware by the question. He remembered thinking of everything he knew of his family lands. After what seemed like ages, but what was more likely to be less than a minute, Artos thought of an answer.

“He established the Northern Knights!”

His father smiled at his answer. “Aye, after his time spent with southron armies, Brandon thought the North needed its own elevated warriors. Just as andal knights are a facet of their religion, so are the knights of the first men. We say our vows before a heart tree, and forever after wear the face of that tree on our person. Northern Knights are more than just about our gods, however. When Brandon founded the order in this very castle, he wanted our knights to be the best warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. He invited crannogmen to teach stealth, hunting, and tracking. He invited men from the Rills to teach fighting from horseback, and men from the mountain clans to teach their brutal and wild fighting styles. He even invited the best southron knights to teach superb and refined swordsmanship. Each of these skills, and many more, have been passed down by our order, from generation to generation. One day you will learn them, as just as I did.”

His father paused, and seemed to consider going on, then hesitated. He turned away from Artos and stared out the dark windows at the end of the solar. Artos followed his gaze and joined his father’s vigil into the inky blackness. In the absence of his father’s voice, the crackling of the fire filled the room. He listened closer and could hear the wind buffeting the walls of the keep and the deep boom of waves crashing against the cliffs below the castle. In the warmth and silence, his exhaustion hit him like a runaway horse. Even through the lense of memory, he could feel the struggle to keep his eyes open. He remembered hastily shaking his head to fend off the sleep. His father noticed the movement and gave Artos another wry smile.

“Are you having trouble delivering on your earlier promise?”

He gave what he thought was a defiant shake of the head. His father gave him a small chuckle and smirk.

“Nonetheless, I think it is time we wrap up this lesson. There are more stories to tell, and more details to give, but they can wait for another night.”

“Brandon Snow was trusted by his brother to do what was necessary to preserve and protect his family and the North as a whole. Even when he became Lord Brandon Vader, he continued with this mission, and ensured that his descendants would as well.”

His father rose from his chair and moved to stand in front of Artos. With the fire behind him, Artos could only see his profile, with his features cast in shadow occasionally broken by the now flickering candles. He once again felt his father’s hand on his shoulder as he saw the man kneel down to be face-level with Artos.

“We must do our duty, to our people, to our liege, and to our gods. There will be times in your life where the easier or more prosperous path lies with skirting your duty, but you must not take that route. Our house words remind us of this; strength is our duty, in that we must always be strong in our duty.”

His father stood back up and offered his hand to Artos. He was now to the right of Artos, giving him another chance to stare into the fire. It was weaker, but the flames still danced and twisted as if silently screaming for more air. His father’s call broke his gaze.

“Artos wake up.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t sleeping father.”

“Well you are getting close, come, we will go to your room.”

He remembered not wanting to go to sleep, as he really wanted to learn about his father’s sword, but he wasn’t used to disobeying his father, so he climbed out of the chair and took his father’s hand. Together they extinguished the candles in the room and walked into the hallway.

“This will not be our last talk, but the hour is late and you are young. There will come a time when your duty is preparing to take my titles, but that time is not upon us yet.” His father explained as they walked through the castle towards his towards his room.

The rest of the memory passed by in a blur; he recalled only being put to bed while he was more asleep than awake.

He continued to live more memories after, filling in all the blank spots in Artos’-_no, his own_\- life. As he experienced a memory of learning how to ride a horse with his knees, the edges of his vision began to be crowded with a dark haze. He lost focus of the dream as the haze encroached further into his vision. He felt his different consciences and separate memories fold into each other as his vision gradually diminished and he slipped into unconsciousness.

————————————————————

**Breaktyde**

**290 AC**

Artos woke up with a gasp. He last remembered his attempts at riding a horse with his knees under the watchful gaze of Rostan, the master of horse. _Or was it dying in the cold beside his brother._ His other life came flooding back, and Artos was struck by a burning headache. His head throbbed as he looked out the window of his room. He noticed only the lights from lanterns and torches in the harbor far below his window. Artos turned in his bed to face the wall and promptly fell back asleep.

Hours later, Artos once again woke in a shock. Only this time, he had no confusion. There was a single, burning set of facts dominating his mind.

_He was in the World of Ice and Fire._

_He was a young lordling now._

_Neither he nor his family were supposed to exist in this world._

_He had work to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here goes my first attempt at writing fiction! Join me as we experience Artos' journey through Westeros.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artos and his father struggle with recent changes.

**Breaktyde**

**290 AC**

**Lord Torrhen**

He had always loved the way the morning sun reflected on the choppy waters below his castle. The warm light glinted off of the white capped waves, turning sections of the otherwise foreboding dark blue water golden. The light seemed to promise that the actually very cold water was much warmer. He loved watching as distant ships slowly tacked their way into the harbor, cutting through the blue and gold waves. Even from afar, he could see the reds of Lannister, the purples of Mallister, and even some greens of Tyrell. The sight warmed his heart. Ever since he had returned from putting down those damned ironborn, he had been sending ravens to the southron lords, assuring them that the North was open to trade, that it was safe once again to sail past the Iron Islands, in groups of course. The war had brought with it dark times, both for him and and his men fighting on the islands, and for his people struggling with the complete stop of southron trade. It was only two moonturns past that he had received a raven from Lord Cutting, with word that he had spotted trading ships rounding the Stony Shore and heading north. Since then a steady trickle had turned into a torrent of trade, as lords up and down the west coast struggled to make up for lost time. _I am in that count as well_, he thought as he glimpsed a heavily laden ship claw its way out of the Swift River’s mouth and into the bay. Torrhen turned his gaze downward and could see a few fishing sloops pushing their way through the shadow that his home cast in the waters below. The latecomers were more than likely rushing to join their brethren out in the bay, hoping that there were bountiful catches left for them. He closed his eyes and listened to the song of his lands.

In the silence, Torrhen could hear the waves crashing against the salt-stained cliffs below him, the wind from the northwest whistling amongst the battlements around him, the distant clinking of the various blacksmiths far behind him, and the rustling of the armored man beside him.

“What has you stirred up Kennet?”

“It’s nothing milord” Kennet replied solemnly as he hastily stilled himself and stared out into the bay, refusing eye-contact with Torrhen.

He sighed, “Kennet, did you address me as milord when we snuck out of the castle and explored the taverns as boys?”

“No, bu-”

“Did you address me as milord as you wiped my ass on the sparring ground floor when we trained to be warriors?”

“N-”

“Did you address me as milord when you stood with me as I took on my father’s titles?”

His captain of the guard didn’t even try to reply this time, only turning away from his vigil and meeting Torrhen’s gaze with his own, an exasperated look on his face.

“Then please just use my name when we are alone.”

Before he could urge his friend to spill his thoughts, he saw Kennet’s exasperated mask melt into his usual happy demeanor as he glanced behind Torrhen to the stairwell leading up to the battlements atop the large cylindrical keep of Breaktyde.

“Ah, but we are not alone, my lord. I wouldn’t dare address you with anything other than the titles you are owed when the good and honorable Ser Hoff is in earshot.” The reply was dripping with Kennet’s typical sarcasm.

Hoff huffed, “If you give me any more respect, my dear Kennet, I would know you were a faceless man.”

As they laughed, his castellan moved to join them on the ledge. His footsteps were swift and light, revealing a prowess that was otherwise hidden by his age. Torrhen spared a glance at his friends. Kennet was a rough and heavyset man, the son of a guardsman. He bore the scars on his hands and face of a life spent fighting and training to fight, and his long hair and large mustache were now more grey than black, making him look much older than his actual age. He wore the typical garb of the guardsmen under his command; his black gambeson was striped with white and a snarling shadowcat adorned his shoulders in lieu of a heart tree face. He had resumed his watch over the bay, leaning on the battlements with his black and red barbute on a nearby merlon.

Standing almost regally on his other side was Ser Hoff Tolm. The older man was tall and slim, with close-cropped white hair and a small goatee. He had large bushy eyebrows, and his face was all sharp angles, with high cheekbones and a cutting brow. Hoff’s long thin fingers tapped steadily on the hilt of his sword. He bore the solemn red heart tree face of Breaktyde on the shoulders of his arming doublet. As the son and grandson of castellans to House Vader, Breaktyde had been home for his entire life. He had squired for Torrhen’s father, and Torrhen had squired for him.

Torrhen considered the two men family. He trusted them with his life, and he valued their council above all others. The three of them together had faced down challenges in peacetime and war, and Torrhen had always felt that together they could face anything. Well, almost anything. He felt blind and helpless to the problem presented to him now.

_His Alena would have known what to do_.

Kennet broke their silence, “It’s about your boy, isn’t it, Torrhen?”. Despite his rough appearance, he was no fool. Kennet knew that he only called on his friends to join him on the top of the keep when urgent council was needed. Like Torrhen had before going to war against the family that had betrayed the North’s allegiance; who had killed his liege, his liege’s fool of an heir, and his own brother. Like he had hardly a year ago, before marching once again to war. Like he had that dark night when he felt the sun wouldn’t rise again, when he discovered that his wife had finally given him an heir, at the cost of her life.

“Aye,” Torrhen responded quietly, all remaining mirth having been driven from him, “Luca said he has made a full recovery, but I can see that something in him has changed.” After his son’s fall, Torrhen had felt broken. It had taken all of his will to give his people a countenance of composition, all while he internally despaired for his only remaining blood, his heir, his son. For four days Artos had rested, fitfully at times, until he had finally awoken two, well, now three days ago. Luca had warned that Artos might not remember some things, especially around the time of his accident, but that was not what worried Torrhen. In fact, his boy seemed to remember everything. No, what worried Torrhen, and by the looks of it worried his companions as well, was much more subtle. His son was not acting as a boy only eight namedays old should. In the two full days he had been awake, Artos had not deviated much from his usual routine. On both days, he had arisen early to train in the yard, had gone to Luca for lessons, and had finished his days following Torrhen as he had gone about his lordly business. His son had always understood the importance of his duties, and Torrhen was proud of him for it, but after his fall Artos went about all his tasks with an determinedness that frankly scared Torrhen. Gone were the bright and shining eyes of a boy curious about the world around him, replaced by eyes that seemed haunted by purpose. He went about all his tasks as if his life depended on it. He was worried about his son, and what he had seen last night had spurred him to call on his most trusted advisors.

“Late last night, I was disturbed in my sleep by some noise,” he left the fact that he had been awake due to one of his many nightmares unmentioned, “I knew sleep would be hard to come by, so I decided to investigate.”

He paused to gather his thoughts, while Hoff and Kennet looked at him with unease, not knowing what Torrhen would say next.

“I found the light of fire burning under the door to the library, and wondered who had been so careless as to risk the burning of my castle. When I entered, I found Artos asleep on The _Account of the War of the Ninepenny Kings_, with a pile of other books on history spilled on the floor beside him! Why would my son be up late at night, reading some damned history text? Before his fall he could hardly sit all the way through the maester’s lessons! Together with the odd way he has been acting, I don’t think, I know something is wrong.”

In the absence of his own voice, Torrhen could once again hear the crash of the waves below him, feel the pull of the winds around him, and see the beauty of the bay before him. He let the sounds and sights of his home calm him as he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He turned from the bay and met the eyes of his friends. Both of their faces bore concern and worry. He was glad he was not alone in his apprehension. Kennet once again broke their silence.

“I have noticed it too, Torrhen. The intent with which he goes about his training, practising every move, stance, and movement hundreds of times without my telling him to is odd. Most boys just want to skip to the fancy parts, and I remember him asking the same, before his fall.”

Before Torrhen could respond, Hoff cut in. “I saw him just yesterday asking Ser Darron and Ser Rogar about their training, and when I went to send a raven to Lord Mont about his missing iron shipments, I heard Artos asking Luca all about your vassal lords. Perhaps your boy is just ready to grow up? Perhaps it is time to start treating him more like a man?”

“Not at eight,” Kennet replied, “Mayhaps he is bored, and needs some noble boys his age to run around with. I know all boys are interested in fighting at that age, and maybe this fall has prompted him to take things more seriously. In truth, I don’t know, but I do know that a boy at eight isn’t ready to be a man.”

“Relax Kennet, I didn’t mean that Torrhen should send him to be bloodied yet, just that he might need to be given more responsibilities. Maybe it’s time to consider fostering or squiring Artos; my boy started training under Ser Duncan when he was only a little bit older than he is now.”

Torrhen sighed, he knew both Kennet and Hoff meant their best, and that mayhaps some of their advice would help, but he felt like they did not understand the heart of the problem. His son had changed. There were many ways that he remained the same, but he could see the change in the way Artos carried himself, the way he carefully spoke, and the somber, almost older look he always had now in his green eyes. Eyes that were so similar to his own. Torrhen decided he would have to simply have to talk with his son. However, he knew the value of his friend’s input, he promised himself that he would consider what they said.

“That is a lot to think on, so think on it I will. I trust that this conversation was held in confidence?”

“Of course” Hoff and Kennet replied in unison.

“Good, I would like both of you to give me a list of your recommendations as to who you think Artos should squire for, and where you think he would prosper if fostered.”

They both nodded their heads in affirmation, and Torrhen decided that closed the conversation. As they walked down the black stone stairs into the keep, Torrhen remembered something that Hoff had said. Lord Mont of the Iron Fork had always been a trustworthy man and a steadfast Vader loyalist besides.

“And Hoff, pray tell, what in the gods’ name is Gaten Mont doing with my iron?”

————————————————————

**Breaktyde**

**290**

**Artos II**

Sparring, he decided, was much more strenuous than what he could remember of soccer practice. Or maybe it was due to his better diet as Jack, or Ser Rogar’s lack of concern for water breaks. Either way, he was glad for the embrace of the cold stone on which he was laying, on top of the inner ward’s outer wall and in the shadows of its battlements. He had started his training with Kennet, his father’s faithful captain of the guard, but he had left Artos in the care of the hard-driving Ser Rogar when he had to go and “argue with Ser Hoff and your lord father”.

He sighed and dabbed a cool wet cloth on his forehead, letting the water stream down his face and into his hair. He had just escaped the clutches of the sandy blonde haired knight, but he had not yet built up the motivation to get up from the resting spot in which he had fallen, once out of sight of his father’s men, of course. Instead, he made do with taking shelter from the sun and the sight of the men in the ward, as he listened to the sounds of a fully active castle. It was something that as Jack he would have never dreamed of seeing or hearing, and yet here he was, Artos Vader, the son and heir of Torrhen Vader, Lord of Breaktyde and Warden of the Western Shore. That was another thing. In his previous life, he remembered reading the books and watching the show that were now his reality. In fact, one of the first things he had done was to try and discern which cannon he lived in. Nominally, by the date of Robert’s Rebellion, he lived in the book canon. However, in both the show and books, Artos knew neither he nor his family existed.

He knew who was responsible for the changes. Brandon Snow. The founder of his house, and the cause for most of the differences he noticed. Besides his own family and home, Artos could now sense Brandon’s innovations and changes everywhere. Even as he lay on the wall, he noticed them. He couldn’t smell the stench of human waste in the air due to the odd primitive rainwater sewage system. He could hear the hustle and bustle of men preparing horses and saying farewells to loved ones as they prepared for a year of being “bloodied” at the wall, a requirement for all men-at-arms and knights in Vader lands. He could hear the sharp ringing from the blacksmithies of the castle and town, the result of the large steel and iron trade flowing through the harbor. If he stood up, he would be able to see the sprawling port town of Branton, its two harbors crawling with activity. However, the change that told him the most about Brandon, and that gave him the most pause, was his name. Vader.

There was no Westerosi reason for the name, no simply logic or excuse that would dismiss Artos’ suspicions. He couldn’t escape the fact that Brandon chose the name of the culturally iconic villain for his house. Nor could he escape the fact that Darth Vader was only known on Earth. The only conclusion left was that Brandon was like him. That led Artos to more questions.

_How many more of them had there been?_

_What other changes had been made?_

_Why had they been sent here?_

At the very least, he could work to answer the first two. So far, from his late night readings, he couldn't find any changes other than the ones Brandon caused. He would keep searching, but Artos was pretty sure that he and Brandon were the only ones. He would have to cut down on his reading at night, however. Sometimes he forgot that he was still only eight, with all of the limitations that came with his young body. The previous evening, Artos had woken in the middle of the night, with all the candles in the library already put out, and with a book serving as his pillow. He didn’t know who had put out the candles, but he was glad for it. He hoped whoever it was didn’t tell his father.

He heard the click of boots on stone. Someone was walking towards him. He hastily pulled the cloth from over his eyes and blinked in the shadowed light. There was a face hanging over him that slowly came into focus as he blinked. His father’s. It wore a concerned frown.

“I’m glad you’re catching up on your sleep.”

Artos quickly stumbled to his feet and faced his father. He tried to keep his eyes in contact with his fathers’ as he felt his hair being ruffled firmly but lovingly.

“Go get washed up, then join me in my solar. I’d love to hear what you think about the War of the Ninepenny Kings.”

_Oh Great_.

—-

As he ascended the steps to the solar, Artos struggled to think of plausible excuses for his actions. The more he thought about it, the more complex they became. By the time he reached the hallway that led to the solar, his freshly washed hair stuck to the nervous sweat on the back of his neck. Artos stopped his walk. He was not walking to his own execution. His father just wanted to understand his actions. He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his neck. When he felt composed, Artos continued to the solar. Before he could raise his hand to knock on the door, he heard his father tell him to enter.

Lord Torrhen Vader sat on the large, beautifully carved ironwood chair behind his desk. Behind him, Artos could see through the large windows out into the bay, with its dark blue whitecapped waves and the brilliant light blue sky that silhouetted his father. He slowly approached the desk and with a gesture his father bade him to take one of the smaller seats in front of the desk. From this position, Artos could understand why other lords might be intimidated by the Lord Vader. The large ironwood chair only helped his father’s natural height, and Artos felt even smaller than eight year old boy he was. Lord Torrhen met his stare with a stern gaze. Artos decided to speak first, before he lost his nerves.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep with the candles still burning father, that was reckless and irresponsible of me.”

“Aye, it was. However, I am more concerned about why you felt the need to be up late reading history texts.”

His father paused, and leaned back in his seat, but he never broke eye contact with Artos. He gulped, and his father cocked a single eyebrow. He was waiting for an answer. Artos pushed aside his misgivings on emotionally manipulating his father and launched into an explanation.

“When you first explained to me what our house words meant, I took them to heart. I have tried to be strong in everything I do, and especially in my duties. When that horse threw me, I felt like I had failed. Some stupid horse almost killed me, father. How is that living up to our family’s legacy? Since I have woken, I have resolved to double my efforts. I want to live up to your expectations father. Training in the yard is important, but so is knowing the history of the realm. I felt like it was my duty to learn.”

Artos was surprised by the passion in his voice, and even more surprised when he felt like he meant the words he spoke. Once he finished, silence once again filled the room. As his father’s gaze studied him, Artos could see the concern slowly burn out in his eyes. He fixed Artos with a small, wry smile.

“Artos, you have not disappointed me. Horses throw people, it’s a fact of life. You have impressed me with how quickly you have learned to get back up and continue in your duties. You are still only a child, though. I know no boy of eight wants to hear that, but you still have time to grow up. I don’t need you burning down the library trying to cram facts into your head.”

His father sighed and lightly drummed his fingers on the desk. He seemed deep in thought, as if planning what to say next. Despite his assurances, Artos still felt nervous, and struggled to remain still in his chair. He heard his father give a dry, dark chuckle.

“It’s my fault, you know? I never considered what it would be like to grow up without any siblings or people close in age. I had my brother Roddy, even though he was much younger, as well as Hoff and Kennet. You have who? Timoty, the cooks git? Even Hoff’s boy, Tillen, is four namedays your senior and already training to be a knight besides. No wonder your so obsessed with duty! Your mother would have killed me if she saw that I raised you without any companions.”

His father choked out the last bit, and Artos felt a flood of sympathy for him. He couldn’t remember his mother, and he felt a hole in his life because of it. A hole that had been somewhat filled with the memories of Jack’s mother, but a hole nonetheless. Artos couldn’t imagine the loss his father felt even now. He knew he should say something, anything to his father, but he couldn’t summon the right words so silence reigned between them.

“I think Ser Hoff had the right of it. You need boys your age to run and laugh and play with. To later train with and grow with. You need to know what it’s like to have brothers and sisters. Artos, I know it will be hard to leave home, but I will be sending you to foster. You will also soon start training to be a knight, as is family tradition. Whoever I send you to foster with will be grateful to have a Vader trained knight to help their children, so you will still be able to become a knight.”

Artos felt the air being sucked out of his chest. Being fostered somewhere else was one of the last things he wanted. He loved his father, and loved his home. Who knew how his foster parents would treat him, or how he would get along with their kids? He felt solid footing at Breaktyde, and felt it was a place to prepare for what he knew was coming. Remembering he was still in his father’s presence, he mustered his thoughts.

“Wh- Where will you be sending me father?”

“Please do not look at me like that. It looks like you just saw a snark! Alas, I’m not sure yet son. I wish I could send you to your uncle, Lord Mallister, but he is of the south, and worships his southern gods. No, I will keep you in the North. Where, I have not yet decided. But know this, my boy. This is difficult for me as well. I will ensure to send you to a family that will love you and raise you right, with other children to grow with.”

“Yes father. Thank you.” It was the strongest reply Artos could manage, and it felt like it took all of his will to summon. His father took sympathy with him, and reached across the desk to grab his hand in a firm grip.

“You will not be leaving for some time, so do not give up on life here yet. In fact, before you leave, I must show you more of the lands you are to inherit. Lord Mont reports organized banditry in the hills between here and the Iron Fork, and I think that is a good opportunity for us. You will accompany me when we travel there to investigate his claims. You will see more of our lands and meet some of our lords in their own keeps.”

His father seemed resolute in the decision, so Artos did not try to argue. He worried about the bandits, but he knew his father would do everything to protect him. Lord Torrhen once again seemed to read his thoughts and gave him another smile.

“You might even be able to witness some of our knights in action!” Artos knew he should be horrified that a father would encourage his son by talking about bloody violence, but in his heart of hearts, he knew he _was_ very excited.


	3. Chapter 2

**North of Winterfell  
** 290  
Lord Eddard 

_At least the man died well_, Ned thought as he and his party made their way through the Wolfswood on the journey back to Winterfell. The man put up a struggle at first, attempting to pull away from his men as they dragged him in front of the ironwood stump. His scruffy and windburned face had glistened with tears as he begged for mercy and forgiveness, but every man who witnessed the pitiful show, including the doomed man in black, knew that there was only one punishment for desertion. Ned had thought the man was doomed to a coward’s death as well as a coward’s fate, but as soon as Ice was unsheathed, the broken man managed to compose himself. For his last words, the man had asked if he would be forgiven by the gods, but Eddard had no answer to the question, and only told the man to fulfill his punishment honorably. 

It was a good lesson for his sons. Ned turned in his saddle to look at them. Robb and Jon were astride ponies befitting their age, riding next to each other. They had smiled and whispered urgently before the execution, no doubt spinning stories about the man they were to see die. Just like he and Brandon had done years before. But now there was no smiling or whispering. The boys were both staring thoughtfully ahead, no doubt mulling over the day’s lessons. It was the first execution Ned had taken them to, and he was proud of them. Both had given the condemned the honor of witnessing his punishment, and both had accepted the old way. Ned shifted his gaze to the other boy in their party, his new ward, riding slightly behind his heir and his bastard. Although Theon hadn’t said it, Ned could tell this was not the boy’s first execution. He had stood apart from the rest of them on that old sacred hill, still a stranger in a strange land, seemingly unaffected by the grisly sight. Ned wondered if Balon carried out his own sentences. The boy had not looked away, but then again he was familiar with death, as it had visited his own home less than a year before. Ned cast the memories of the recent battles from his mind. The boy was in the North now, and Ned was determined to raise him with his sons to be better than his malicious father. 

Ned turned back to the path ahead. The afternoon sunlight glinted through the evergreen boughs above them, tinged green and ever shifting in shadow. It illuminated the ancient path on which they rode, that had likely been travelled by his ancestors for millenia, all fulfilling the same purpose. The path cut through the dim forest that encroached upon Winterfell and spread all the way to the Vader lands in the west. They had not reached the more tread-upon Wolfsroad yet, but from the way Ned could see the increasing light in the distance, he could tell they were not far. Unlike the old path, the Wolfsroad was cut wide and flat through the Wolfswood, and was travelled upon regularly, more so than even the Kingsroad south of Winterfell. 

As they emerged from the dim forest into the clearing cut for the road, the small inn that sat at the crossroads came into sight. It was tidy set of little buildings, made of stone and wood, and clearly not intended for a large amount of traffic. A small clearing was cut for them, but the dark forest loomed close, almost as if waiting to reclaim its lost ground. There were several horses and a wagon tied in the yard, most likely belonging to the various traders and farmers who chose the place as a waypoint as they traveled either east or west. Ned and his party turned their horses east and picked up a faster pace towards Winterfell. 

As they rode, Ned’s party came across several groups of travelers, all of whom swiftly moved to the side of the road as soon as they saw the direwolf banners. He wondered what the smallfolk traders thought of him and his men. Did they know he had just performed an execution? Did they move to the side of the road out of respect or intimidation? Or both? Ned suspected it was the final option, but he could hardly stop and ask. Concentrating on the other groups they passed allowed him some respite from thinking of the life he had just ceremonially taken, and the rest of their ride passed quickly on the Wolfsroad. Soon Ned could spot his home looming large and silent through the forest. 

When they were almost in the shadow of Winterfell’s colossal granite outer walls, Ser Jory came trotting up to ride alongside Ned. 

“My lord, may I have a moment?”

“Of course Jory, is there a problem?”

They had both slowed their horses, and the rest of the party looked at the two of them expectantly. Many, Ned knew, wanted to be inside the castle as soon as possible, but the respect they had for their lord and captain of the guard kept them from showing their impatience. Well for most, atleast. Ned noticed that both Robb and Jon looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for something. 

“There’s no problem my lord, it’s just that I promised the boys earlier this week that I would take them fishing…”

Jory paused and glanced back at the focus of their conversation, and Ned followed his gaze. Both boys alternated their gaze between Ned and the Wolfswood, silently pleading with him. 

“...and well, I think it would do them good if I took them now.”

Ned sighed and glanced toward the sun. They still had several hours of daylight left, and the days seemed to continually get longer as spring faded into summer. He had meant to speak with Robb about the execution after they arrived home, but he thought that the boys had conducted themselves well. He turned back toward Winterfell. Although he couldn't see it through the thick walls, the godswood called to him. He could talk to Robb after they got back. 

“You can take them, but be back before sundown.”

Jory thanked him and moved towards the boys, but Ned called him back. 

“Jory, take Theon as well.”

He hesitated for a second, but eventually nodded. “Yes my lord.” With that Ser Jory nudged his horse and moved back down the line to Robb and Jon. As soon as they heard the news, they turned to Ned and smiled. He gave them a solemn nod in return, and moved to approach the gates of his home once more. He knew Catelyn would be waiting to hear of how Robb had done. He supposed the godswood would still be there after he had talked to his wife. 

\---

Ned felt well rested and at peace when he left the godswood. He knew it would not last. In front of his gods, he could be the humble man, the student, and the learner, but as soon as he walked through the gates of the wood, he would resume being Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The titles were never meant to be his, but his family had been betrayed and murdered in the south, so the North and all the responsibilities that came with it had fallen to him. It was those duties which he had to attend to now. As he strode through the wards of his castle to the solar, Ned thought of the day’s tasks before him. There were several disputes between his lords that he would need to settle. Lords Cerwyn and Manderly were once again disputing each other’s tolls for trade along the White Knife, and Lord Hornwood was complaining that Bolton men continued to hunt his game. That was the life of The Stark, always settling disputes among the fiercely proud and independent Northern lords. _At least they are mostly honest and honorable in their disputes_, Ned thought as he entered his solar. He shuddered at what his friend Robert must have to deal with in the southron courts.

Before his thoughts on his chosen brother could overtake the tasks he needed to accomplish, Ned grabbed the pile of letters Luwin had placed in the solar and took a seat at his desk. Unfortunately, the first letter he saw only unearthed more memories. The black wax seal was pressed with the outline of a snarling shadowcat. The memories were from times of war. He saw black armored knights charging the breach at Pyke, carrying the shadowcat banner proudly above them. He remembered the banner once again, above disciplined pikemen as they smashed into the dragons’ left flank at the Trident. Due to his time in the Vale, Ned had never trained to be a Northern Knight, but he remembered times as a boy when all he could dream of was to be a knight of Breaktyde. Ned remembered stern Lord Torrhen, the man who had advised him when Ned wasn’t much more than a green boy during the Rebellion, and again more recently on the Iron Islands. The shadowcat on the seal stared at him, its blank gaze not giving away any of the contents it secured. Ned broke the seal and unfolded the letter. After the normal formalities and inquiries, Ned got to the meat of the note. 

“My son, Artos, has reached the age where he needs similar boys around him to learn and grow with. Boys to make lifelong connections and friendships with. At Breaktyde, there are no such fellow noble sons. All my vassals’ heirs are grown men or still much older than Artos. I look fondly upon my brother’s friendship with your’s, grown during fosterage in the Rills, and wish the same for my son. My lord, I humbly ask you to foster Artos at Winterfell, to once again renew the bonds of family and friendship that have defined our houses’ relationship for generations.” 

Ned stopped reading the letter and turned toward his hearth. He thought about the boy in question. He had met Artos once, when the Northern fleet anchored in Branton at the conclusion of the recent war. He had occupied his father’s shadow for most of the time Ned was there, hardly speaking but always watching. He had been particularly captivated by the boy’s eerie dark green eyes, which stood in contrast to his otherwise Stark-like features. The boy had likely received the trait from his Reed grandmother, but that fact didn’t stop Ned from thinking about the legendary Brandon Snow and his supposed greensight. Was there any of that old magic left in their blood? Artos’ green eyes certainly didn’t discourage the thought. All potential magic aside, Artos seemed like a good lad, and the boy had looked lonely. Ned knew the Vaders had always stood firm with the Starks, and he knew that a stronger relationship between their respective heirs would only benefit both houses. 

Ned continued reading, and the rest of the letter only sweetened the deal. Lord Torrhen offered sending one or two Breaktyde-sworn knights along with Artos, to train the boy and Ned’s own sons. Although Ser Rodrik was a good knight and northman, he wasn’t a Northern Knight. The knights of Breaktyde were known as the best in the North, and having his heir trained by them would only help Robb’s future position among the lords. 

There was one problem with the whole proposition, and it stemmed from Ned’s newest guest in Winterfell. With their proximity and strength, the Vaders and Greyjoys hated each other. Ned did not want a boy in his castle who would pick fights and only further Theon’s loneliness. The boy he remembered at Breaktyde did not seem the sort to pick fights, however, and he hoped that the boy was young enough to not harbor any of his own animosity. He supposed that if both boys could get along, it might eventually lead to a stronger North, one that would not have to worry about raids on its west coast. Ned sighed; he never liked playing politics with other people’s lives, but that was unavoidable in his position. He would accept Lord Torrhen’s offer. 

The slow ringing of chains and the scuffing of footsteps broke Ned from his thoughts. He put aside the proposal and looked at the rest of the letters, ledgers, and accounts that filled his desk. The noises from the hallway only promised more work for him. He wished he was out fishing with his sons, but such was the life of The Stark in Winterfell. 

————————————————————

**Breaktyde  
** 290  
Artos III 

The rain came down in endless sheets, buffeting the stone and wood of the castle, and turning the outer courtyard’s hard packed dirt into a thick mud. Water that didn’t flow into the various drainage ditches and culverts pooled in the courtyard and was mixed slowly with the dirt into mud by the knights, men-at-arms, stableboys, and servants who braved the storm and trod through the courtyard. Occasionally men would put down reeds and gravel to stem the mud, but after a week of storms, the mud had become a constant in their lives. The awning next to the stables didn’t offer much protection for Artos and his father as the wind whipped over the walls and through the open gate, slinging rainwater in all angles. They had both come out prepared for travel, however, and were warm and dry under their oilskin and wool coats.

“Lord Vader” 

Artos turned toward the source of the call. Ser Hoff was striding confidently and quickly through the courtyard, seemingly unaffected by the rain. His white hair was stuck to his forehead and the sides of his head, and rivulets of water streamed off the coat he had draped over his dark armor. As he got closer to them, Artos noticed the dark look in his eyes. 

“A rider just arrived from Lord Rush. He says the Swift River has jumped its banks at Shallow Bend and the Rush Rapids, and that the Wolfsroad is barely passable east of their keep.”

Artos’ father shook his head in disappointment. When the storms were first reported by the whalers hightailing into the harbor, he had made it clear that their travel plans would not change. The original plan was to sail up the Swift River to Lord Rush’s Headwater Keep, which overlooked the rapids where the waters from Deep Lake flowed into the river. There they were to join with Lord Rush’s party, and march south through the hills to the Iron Fork, hopefully sussing out any bandits along the way. However, when the storm had continued for several days, and as the Swift had begun to rise, they had adjusted their plans to riding up the road that travelled adjacent to the river. Now, it seemed, they would have to change their plans once again.

His father clenched his jaw in frustration as looked about the ward for something. Artos could see his eyes narrow upon one of the stableboys hurrying across the courtyard with a bag of feed. 

“Heric!” 

The stableboy looked shocked that the Lord of Breaktyde would be calling for him, but he recovered quickly. He handed the feed off to another servant and rushed over to where they were standing under the awning. 

“Milord?”

“Tell Rostan to unsaddle all of the horses; it seems like we will not be riding to Headwater Keep today. After that, find Kennet and tell him to dismiss the guardsmen gathered. Tell him to meet us in the inner ward gatehouse. Also, I need you to find Maester Luca and bring him to the same place. Can you handle all of that?”

Heric mouthed the commands back to himself before nodding to Artos’ father. Lord Torrhen smiled at the boy before he pointedly glanced over Heric’s shoulder. 

“Go on, be quick about it.”

“Yes milord”

With that, Heric sprinted off into the storm. His father turned toward the stairs leading to the middle ward and walked off in large strides, bidding Artos and Ser Hoff to follow. Once out of the shelter of the stables, the rain pounded Artos even harder. He had trouble keeping his footing in the mud and staying at pace with his father and Ser Hoff. He was glad they decided not to ride out today. 

\---

The rooms of the inner gatehouse were well furnished, with stucco walls, various armaments hanging on said walls, and a roaring hearth, but no amount of furnishing could hide their martial purpose. They were currently in the area above the actual gates, and Artos could not look away from the various murder-holes and raised porticullises spread throughout the room. If he stood over holes, he could look down and see the dark pathway below. He could not help but imagine attackers below him, attempting to breach the gatehouse. The thought of attempting to kill those men sent chills down his spine. Artos did not dwell on it for long, as his father called him to where he and Ser Hoff stood by the fireplace. 

Artos timidly walked over to where they were standing, and was soon basking in the heat of the fire with the adults, feeling it slowly penetrate and dry the layers of clothes he still had on. His father rested his arm on Artos’ shoulder, and he felt even warmer. Kennet soon joined them, emerging from one of the doorways in the room as he hastily buttoned the front of his jacket. 

“Sorry for the tardiness my lord, it would do no favors to anyone if your captain of the guard caught a cold and died in the summer.” 

The almost permanent smile on Kennet’s face broke the apparent morbidity of the statement, and Artos was once again astounded by the odd world in which he found himself. The duality of his existence struck him once more. It was hard to wrap his young mind around the facts and world that he knew he remembered, and yet at the same time exist and remember a childhood in a world he had thought was fiction. Artos often found solace in the things that were constant in both his memories and the world in which he existed. The warmth of the sun on his back. The feel of the cool breeze. The sparkling ocean water. The smell of freshly baked bread. The embrace of a roaring fire. The warm gazes from those who loved him. Though the last one was bittersweet. It brought memories of the brother he failed, the girlfriend he abandoned, and the family he missed. Yet Artos clutched those remnants of his past life close, as a tether to his former reality, and as a reminder of who he was. 

“Artos, boy, have you been listening?” 

His gaze had wandered to the crackling fire, but he quickly turned it to the source of the voice. 

“No Ser, I’m sorry.” 

Ser Hoff gave Artos a cross look and gave an indignant huff. 

“We are discussing your future, and your father has allowed you to be present. You had better give him some respect and listen.”

Artos turned his now ashamed face up to his father, but instead of being mad, he was giving Artos a concerned stare. 

“I’m sorry father, what was being discussed?”

Before Lord Torrhen answered Artos, he glanced at Ser Hoff and Kennet, and both men gave him slight nods. 

“We have come to a conclusion about who you will squire for.”

Artos gulped. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for squireship, yet his father believed him to be, so there must have been some merit in the idea. Ignorance was no defence against the march of time, so Artos prepared himself to inquire further. 

“Who will be my knight?”

“Ser Rogar Rush will train you, and knight you when you are old enough and ready.”

“Thank you, father.” 

Artos wasn’t sure what he meant with the thanks, or if he meant anything at all, but the reply was fitting. He should have been excited, as Ser Rogar was known as one of Blacktyde’s best knights, and yet Artos remembered the man’s brutal training and hardriving nature. The memories of his long training session under the man several weeks ago still sent shivers down his spine. 

As if sensing Artos’ displeasure, his father gave him a stern look.

“Ser Rogar was willing to take you as his squire, and he is a great knight and a better man. It will do you good to learn under him. I expect him to find you as an eager student.”

Artos nodded. “Yes father, I will do my best to do my duty.” Artos had to suppress a laugh when he realized what he was reciting. It had been a long time and a different world gone since he was in the Boy Scouts, but it seemed that he still remembered the oath. It was curious how well it fit with his new role. 

Lord Torrhen only had time to tilt his head and give Artos a queer look before they heard a ringing of chains coming from the stairwell door. 

“It seems Luca has finally decided to join us.”

Kennet let out a snort at Ser Hoff’s remark and moved to open the door for the maester. The old man soon moved through the door, accompanied by Heric, and a slender girl, Donella Tolm. The tall maester’s dripping and greyed red hair was plastered to his face, and his waterlogged grey robes looked almost a navy color as water splattered from them onto the floor. At a small nod from Kennet, Heric turned and scampered from the room, likely back to his tasks in the lower ward. 

“I am sorry my lord, I was showing Donella here different herbs in the glasshouse when Heric finally found us, and she offered to help me walk here.” Donella was a small girl, about Artos’ size, despite her being four namedays his senior. Her golden brown hair and green gown was just as damp as the maester’s hair and robes, and yet she still wore a beaming smile that seemed to light the room. Ser Hoff glared at his daughter’s unkempt appearance in barely concealed horror. 

“Lord Vader, I am sorry for taking Luca’s time, but he was teaching me about herbs and I just couldn’t imagine them without seeing them. Father, I’m sorry for my appearance, I just couldn’t bear to think of Luca slipping on the way here.” Now she turned to him and her smile seemed to get even brighter, “Hello Artos!”. 

Artos waved to her as his father smiled and Ser Hoff gave his daughter another discerning look while cocking his eyebrow. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be sewing with your mother and the other ladies?” 

At this Donella had the sense to give her father an embarrassed blush. She quickly looked down at her feet. Artos could tell she was trying to hide her smile. 

“Very well, please go back to the keep and join the ladies. The maester has enough duties other than sating your curiosity.” 

With that Donella gave everyone in the room one more beaming smile and raced after Heric. After she left they went back to the business at hand. Luca shuffled across the room and joined them near the hearth. After bowing to Artos’ father, he greeted the warmth of the fire with a long sigh. 

“Luca, have we received any reports concerning the end of the storm?” 

Luca reached back and scratched the top of his head with a sigh. “The winds and rain are too strong for any ravens to fly, but we have received some scattered reports. A rider from the north arm of the bay arrived in Branton yesterday. He reported clear skies to the west and south, with a steady eastward wind. In addition, a ship made port early this morning, saying that the storm is largely contained in the bay, as they didn’t even know of its existence until it was upon them. They would have been dashed upon the rocks of Breaktyde if not for the guiding fires in the harbor.” 

Lord Torrhen nodded at this information as he rubbed his chin. Ser Hoff and Kennet only seemed confused by their lord’s line of questioning. 

“Even if the storm stops this minute, the roads to Headwater Keep will remain impassible for some time!”, Kennet exclaimed in frustration. He began pacing about the room, glaring at the walls as if they were the cause of the flooded roads. 

Lord Torrhen only laughed. “Indeed you are right Kennet, but there are other routes to the Ironfort. He once more turned to Luca. “How much longer do you think the storm has until it has run its course?”

Luca turned his eyes to the ceiling of the room and Artos thought he could see the maester murmuring to himself before replying, “Given previous storms like the one we have now, I give it two or three more days before the eastward wind dies and the storm loses its strength over land.”

“Very well, Ser Hoff, I will need you to secure and provision two of our ships, preferably the ones least damaged by the storm. Also gather five of our knights, including Ser Rogar.” He gave Artos a stern look before continuing, “Kennet, I will need seventy and five men-at-arms ready for travel by the storm’s end. We will be sailing south down the Stony Shore, and then up the Winding Forks to the Ironfort. Luca, as soon as the storm clears I need you to send a raven to Lord Cutting. We will stop there to provision and get reinforcements before heading up the river. You all may go back to your duties now.” 

As the men left the room, Artos thought over his father’s words. They would be sailing. As Jack, he had loved to sail, even going as far as owning a small sailboat, but this was different. Travel by sail in this world was an unsure thing at best, and Artos couldn’t help but be worried. His father smiled at him as they walked to the door. 

“It will be a good experience for you, sailing. That is one of our family’s strengths, and it would do you good to familiarize yourself with it. Besides, it will give Ser Rogar time to train you to fight at sea.” With that, Lord Torrhen gave Artos a pat on the back as they opened the door and made to walk down the stairs. 

\---

Luca’s estimates turned out to be almost exactly on point, and by the second day after their conversation, the easterly winds began to die out. Losing its impotence, the storm began to dissipate throughout the third day, and when Artos awoke early on the fourth day, he could see sunlight streaming through his windows. As he made to get dressed and straighten his appearance, the sounds and smells of a port city in full activity began to waft through his now opened shutters. 

Artos made his way down the Great Keep, where he passed servants and men-at-arms rushing about, carrying supplies and orders, all likely getting ready for their lord’s departure. He walked briskly through the courtyard to where the knights tower stood, independent of any of the castle’s walls. When he entered the tower, he was greeted by the smiling face of Ser Darron, who quickly gave him directions to Ser Rogar’s room. Once there, Artos went about his given tasks quickly, brushing down and cleaning his knight’s arms and armaments, making sure they were absolutely spotless. By the time he was finished cleaning the armor, the light from the windows streamed and danced on the dark black surfaces, turning the intimidating armor lustrous. Before he placed the armor back in its appropriate resting place, Artos noticed the light dancing on the red heart tree faces, making them gleam and seem almost alive. He hurriedly finished his tasks in Ser Rogar’s rooms and quickly left the tower and made for the Great Hall. 

When Artos made it to the hall, he noticed his father and Ser Rogar breaking their fast together. Ser Rogar almost immediately noticed his presence and beckoned him over. Artos moved into the large hall, walking around the high table to where his father and his knight were sitting at one of the lower tables. He sat down beside his father, and a passing servant soon brought him bacon and eggs. Artos quickly tucked into his meal, and the adults continued their conversation. 

“Aye, Lord Cutting may seem half Ironborn, and full sea-dog besides, but he is a good man and a canny sailor. You should have seen the man off the coast of Faircastle, he fought like a man possessed, and maneuvered those longships of his in ways I’m not sure even the Ironmen could replicate. I saw him duel three of the scum at the same time, with that damned halberd of his. He moved about the bucking deck as if he was in a sunny valley.” 

Artos was shocked at his father’s seeming impropriety with one of his sworn knights, until he suddenly put all of the pieces together. Ser Rogar had squired for his father! That was why Lord Torrhen had been so insistent that he train under the man, and why they now talked as friends. Artos turned his gaze from his food to the knight. Ser Rogar was perhaps in his mid-twenties, and with his bright blue eyes and long, vibrant sandy hair, he still carried much of his youth with him. The man was clean shaven, standing out from most of the men at Breaktyde. In fact, the only two men Artos knew who were clean shaven were sitting at the table with him. Ser Rogar looked to be digesting Artos’ father’s words about Lord Cutting before he spoke. 

“My father always said that Maynard Cutting was coarse but fair, and that he has always been a loyal and good lord for your family. I look forward to meeting the man myself. Now, the Monts on the other hand…”

Ser Rogar followed the statement with a laugh, but it seemed forced. Artos looked to his father, who tensed at the statement. 

“The Monts have always thought themselves as miners and tradesmen first, and as lords second. They act that way. But I have always been good to them, and they have always been loyal to me. If Lord Mont is worried about bandits, we must show that we are worried as well.”

Although the statement seemed positive, his father’s still tense posture made Artos second guess the meaning of the statement. 

“Nevertheless,” Lord Torrhen punctuated the word by slamming his hands on the table softly and standing from his chair, “the sun is out, the sea is calm, and the winds are blowing southwest once again. It is time to set sail. Ser Rogar, you will be in charge of the other knights. Artos, watch and learn, Ser Rogar has a lot to teach you about knighthood, about leadership, and maybe about the limits of your endurance.” 

With that he ruffled Artos hair and strolled out of the hall, likely to prepare the men to travel to the harbor. He turned back to Ser Rogar, who was giving him a thoughtful look. When he noticed Artos’ gaze, he quickly put a smile on his face, but like the last one, Artos thought it was forced. 

“Come, let’s gather the other knights. They are likely to be still fussing about in the tower.” 

Ser Rogar got up from the table and moved to the door from which Artos had come, and he rushed to follow the man. As they walked across the cobbled inner courtyard, Ser Rogar turned to Artos once again. 

“I know you are nervous about squiring, but it is just another step in life. I was just as scared when my father sent me here to squire. But now I am a Knight of Breaktyde, and have the honor of training my future liege lord. You will do great, I can feel it. It is me who should be nervous!” 

Artos appreciated the man’s words, and it made him doubt his original assessment of the knight. The man was still incredibly hard-driving though. He sighed and continued his struggle to keep up with Ser Rogar’s fast strides across the courtyard. 

————————————————————


	4. Chapter 4

**Sunset Sea**

**290**

**Artos IV**

The wooden sword swung high above Artos’ head, and he tried to follow it with his gaze. Sunlight streamed around the sword, profiling the weapon dark as it began its fast arc towards his head. He quickly hefted his own weapon to block its path, bracing for the impact that was to come. Instead of hearing the loud clack of wood crashing together, his breath left his body as his chest was sharply shoved. Artos stumbled backwards, struggling to stay upright on the rocking ship. Just as he thought he had regained his balance, the deck of the ship bucked, his feet slipped out from under him, and he landed squarely on his back.

Artos stayed down, slowly trying to catch his breath. The sky above him was clear and blue in only the way it could be after a large storm. The sun made him squint, and when he did, he felt the dried sweat crinkle on his face. Ser Rogar had been pushing him for hours, ever since he was awoken before dawn by a tug on the arm. Ser Rogar had him mirroring his steps on the rocking surface of the deck as they witnessed the incredible red and gold sunrise. When the rest of the ship’s passengers slowly emerged on deck, Artos had been practising his guards and strokes of the sword, trying his best to copy his knight. Finally, as many of those same passengers went below deck to shelter from the noon sun, Artos and Ser Rogar had sparred. Well, sparring was a generous term. It had really been three hours of Ser Rogar thrashing him about on the deck of the ship, calling instructions and correcting him every time he fell. The calls echoed through his head, and he tried to correct himself every time he got up, but each time Ser Rogar found something new to exploit. Artos felt all of his mistakes in the bruises he had acquired, and he knew he would feel them even worse the next day.

As Artos carefully got up to his knees, he saw the shadow of his tormentor sway toward him on the rocking deck of the ship. He next saw a gauntleted hand thrust in front of his face. Artos looked up and saw the smiling face of his knight. He warily grabbed the man’s hand and was promptly pulled to his feet.

“You were only watching my sword hand Artos!” He waved the offending hand, which was still holding the wooden arming sword. “You weren’t watching the rest of me.” He laughed and placed his hand on Artos’ shoulder. “That’s why we are doing this. I’m trying to teach you what to be aware of. Every part of a well trained warrior can be used to hurt his foe.”

Artos huffed and looked at his knight and tormentor. The man was standing easily on the swaying deck, seemingly still as the world rocked around them. He was breathing easily, and Artos could barely see where the man had sweated. The sight grated Artos’ nerves. He remembered then what his uncle had told him in another life. _Even if you lose, make sure the other man knew he was in a fight_. Artos gritted his teeth and hefted his sword. Ser Rogar saw the action and cocked a single eyebrow as he released Artos’ shoulder. The look he gave Artos was one of respect.

“You want another go, then?”

Artos nodded and raised his sword into one of the guards that Ser Rogar had taught him. His knight paced several steps backward and mirrored Artos’ guard. For several moments they held their positions, never breaking eye contact. Their silence was only broken by the steady creak of the ship and the occasional calls of its sailors. Artos tried to think of any weakness the knight had that an eight year old boy could exploit. He remembered the gauntleted hand which had been thrust into his face countless times throughout the day, and an idea sprang to his mind. Artos sighed and stepped forward, there was no delaying what would inevitably happen.

One second Ser Rogar was standing perfectly still, and then in the blink of an eye he was moving swiftly forward, his wooden practice sword sweeping low, to catch Artos’ feet. He quickly moved his sword to catch the blow, and the loud crack of wood swords clashing filled the air. Just as Artos felt his arms jarring from the clash, he pulled his sword back and swung it horizontally towards Ser Rogar’s chest. Before Artos’ swing could connect, however, Ser Rogar’s blade caught it. With a twist of his sword arm and shove with his left hand, Ser Rogar had Artos disarmed and once again sprawling on his back.

“You concentrated on your own attack, without any thought for my response.” His knight spoke as he moved to help Artos up to his feet. The gauntleted hand was once again thrust in his face. Before Artos had second thoughts with his plan, he reached up and pulled on Ser Rogar’s hand with all his might, while at the same time hooking his leg around the knight’s foot. Ser Rogar’s easygoing smile only faltered when he tried to move his foot to regain balance, and consequently came crashing down beside Artos. Knowing he didn’t have much time before the surprise wore off, Artos sprung to his feet and grabbed his discarded sword. As he turned around to place the blade against Ser Rogar’s neck, Artos felt a weight pressed against his shoulder blade. The knight was up again, and he had won yet another sparring match. Ser Rogar’s lips were pressed into a deep scowl, and his eyes moved up and down Artos, as if scanning for threats. Artos prepared for a scolding, but Ser Rogar’s eyes quickly lit with mirth as a deep, howling laugh escaped his throat.

“That was good my boy! I really love the spirit and thought behind that move! But you forget, although I am newly YOUR knight, I was not born yesterday!”

The statement was followed up by another laugh as Ser Rogar closed the distance between them. When he reached Artos he once again placed his gauntleted hand on Artos’ shoulder as he cocked his head to the side.

“You were planning that move from the beginning of the match, were you not?”

“Yes Ser, It was the only chance I had.”

“Wasn’t much of a chance, then, was it?”

Artos shook his head in reply. Ser Rogar laughed and patted his shoulder as he guided Artos to the bucket of water a sailor had supplied them. Artos took the ladle offered by his knight and let the warm water trickle down his throat. He soon found himself dipping the ladle in the bucket again and pouring its contents over his head, letting the water wash the sweat from his hair and face. When he was finished, Ser Rogar took the ladle and was soon following Artos’ lead. Finally the knight turned to face him, with a much more serious expression settled on his face.

“These last few days of training may have been rough on you, but I had to get your measure, and you had to get mine, before we truly started training. The drills will continue, of course, but the sparring will be different. It will be more instructional and less about me beating you about.”

Artos could only nod before the knight kept talking.

“Nonetheless, we are done with training for the day. Go put away and clean your armor before you come to clean up mine.” Ser Rogar moved to turn away, but then seemed to remember something else. “While your at it, clean yourself up to, your father wants to speak after I’m done with you.”

With that the knight briskly walked away towards his quarters, leaving Artos still standing by the bucket of water. He sighed and reached for the ladle once again, savoring the water while his gaze rested on the shore slowly moving by, the sight hazy due to the distance. He couldn’t recognize the land that was slowly moving past, and yet he would still rule it one day. It was an odd idea, that he would control land and people that he had never seen, and yet his fate seemed inescapable. All Artos knew was that he would try to prepare himself as best as he could.

\---

Dusk snuck up on him while he was cleaning Ser Rogar’s armor, and by the time Artos made it to the deck atop the sterncastle to meet his father, darkness had descended on their small fleet. From his position beside his father near the railings on the landward side of the ship, Artos could see thousands of stars in the night sky. The stars were tiny pinpricks of pure white light, austere in a way only things outside of the world could manage. When Artos looked to the coastline, he could just make out a harsh dot of orange flame, the signal fire of a solitary keep on the spit of land they were currently rounding. In comparison to the stars, the flamelight seemed a crude mockery. The only sounds Artos could hear were of the wind whistling through the rigging, the steady creaking of the ship, and the waters churning below. His father was the first to break the silence.

“That flame is from the guide fire atop Defiant Tower. House Onsen has lit that fire every night since they were entrusted with the keep in the early days of our family. Do you know what sighting that flame means?”

“That we are near land?”

Artos had been so distracted staring at the proto-lighthouse that the sarcastic reply came automatically, and Artos cringed and hoped that his father overlooked the comment. Mayhaps it was his age that saved him, as his father only let out a gentle laugh.

“That is quite true, my son, but we have been near land this entire trip. It means that we are rounding the Bloody Finger, and should reach Cutting’s Hollow before noon tomorrow.”

“Yes Father”

Artos would have said more, but his attention had been once again grabbed by the majesty of the stars surrounding them. They flickered and danced across the breadth of the night sky, in seemingly endless constellations. Artos wondered how different the constellations were from those of his previous life. He had never paid much attention to the stars in his previous light polluted world, but now Artos wished he had. His father turned to face him, and the rustling of his armor pulled Artos from his trance.

“Nothing really compares to the beauty of a clear night sky.”

“No father, nothing does.”

“I told you several years ago that I would tell you about our family’s sword, and yet I never did. I wanted to wait until you were on your way to becoming a man. I have watched your training on this trip, and I am proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Artos wasn’t really sure what there was to be proud of, except for his talent for losing, but one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Before Artos could look back to the night sky, his father reached toward the sword at his belt and unsheathed it reverently.

The sword was unlike anything Artos had seen in either of his lives. The sword had a simple and unadorned dark steel pommel and crossguard, with dark leather wrapped around grip, but that was not what stunned Artos. The muted light from the stars and the dim lanterns on the ship shimmered and flowed in amazing patterns along the length of the blade, which both seemed as pale as milk glass and as dark as the waters below them. Artos stepped closer and stared intently at the sword in his father’s hands. There were intricate dark blue swirls and lines on the pale blade, which shifted and twirled in the scattered light. Artos pulled his eyes from the blade and was immediately confused. Their surroundings were much darker than the blade itself. It wasn’t as if it was glowing, but light seemed to be pulled towards the sword. Artos looked up to his father’s face. His gaze wasn’t on the sword, but on Artos, and he was smiling.

“It took Brandon twenty years of traveling throughout his holdings to gather the metal needed for this sword. While we look below the ground for our iron, Brandon looked far above. Sometimes..” His father paused as he looked away from Artos and gazed at the tapestry of light above them, “stars fall from the sky. It was these ancient fallen stars that Brandon collected for his blade. Early in his lordship, Brandon enticed a Qohorik blacksmith to settle in his lands, and together they took Brandon’s star metal and forged this sword. Some say dark magic was involved, and frankly, while looking at the sword it is hard to deny. He named the sword _Wanderer_, for the stars that travelled through the black depths of the night sky before he collected them. It has been passed down through our line since Brandon himself, and one day you will hold it along with our titles.”

His father once again met his eyes, and Artos could barely make out the small smile on his father’s lips.

“I see that hungry look in your eyes, my son. I’m sure I had the same look when my father showed me _Wanderer_. You’ll have to wait, as I can still wield it, and besides, you’re not big enough to wield it yet!”

His father was right on both counts. The blade mesmerized Artos, he had never seen such beauty wrought in metal. Yet the hand-and-a-half sword loomed large in his young eyes, and he knew he would have to wait to handle it. Artos wondered about the magical properties of _Wanderer_. He knew that there was another star-forged sword, _Dawn_, and yet that was crafted thousands of years ago from a single star. Did they share any properties? He didn’t know enough about either to judge. His mind strayed to Valyrian steel, and the properties that that magical metal held. Would _Wanderer_ be able to withstand crossing blades with the Others? Artos felt a chill go down his spine and he quickly cut the subject off in his mind. The best way to learn anything about the blade in front of him would be to ask his father.

“Does it keep an edge like Valyrian steel?”

Artos heard a small chuckle come from his father, “Yes it does. _Wanderer_ is as sharp as it was the day it was forged, but it's hard to resist running a whetstone down the length of the blade.”

Lord Torrhen stepped back from Artos and quickly resheathed his sword before closing the distance between them. He reached into the flowing black cloak he was wearing and pulled out a large sheathed knife. The sheath was similar to that of _Wanderer_, all plain but fine dark leather.

“It’s usually custom for a knight to give their squire a first blade, but Ser Rogar has allowed for an exception to be made.” His father slowly unsheathed the blade, and Artos realized that it was star-forged just like _Wanderer_. “This was made at the same time as the sword, and is meant to be worn with it, but I think it would make a fitting first knife for the heir of Breaktyde.”

Artos reverently took hold of the blade, which seemed to be an odd variation of a Bowie knife. The blade of the knife was narrow but decently thick, and it had the same aura as his father’s sword. The pommel and crossgard were similar to its larger companion, with the same dark steel features and a weathered ironwood grip. The knife felt lighter than it should, and whether that was from the star metal or magic he did not know. Artos found it odd that his father was giving an eight year old a large and clearly deadly knife, but he did not object. His father soon handed Artos the sheath, and he reverently placed the knife within.

“That is no toy, and you will not treat it as such. I expect to hear only good things about your handling of that blade.”

Artos gave an emphatic nod, “I will not disappoint you father.”

“Let’s hope not. Come, it is about time to turn in. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

With that his father put an arm around Artos’ shoulders and guided him toward their cabins.

————————————————————

**Cutting’s Hollow**

**290**

**Ser Rogar**

_I must sound like a gods damned idiot_. Rogar was currently standing on the sterncastle deck, with Lord Torrhen, the ship’s helmsman, and his squire Artos. He was also trying his hardest to only breathe through his mouth. Rogar tapped on the railing of the ship nervously, and envied all of his companions’ stoic demeanors. _At least what he could see of them_. The revolting rancid smell of some creature had reached their ship at the same time as the morning fog, which was thick enough to spoon up and eat. Rogar could barely see the shadow of the bow of the ship, and yet the helmsman stood calmly by his wheel, occasionally making slight adjustments to their course. He really did try not to question the man again, and yet Rogar couldn’t help himself.

“By the gods Derin, are you sure you know where we are going?”

The grizzled helmsman responded with a deep chortle, “Aye, Ser, I’ve sailed half a hundred craft through these waters, and Cutting’s Hollow in the morn is oft more foggy than not. It won’t be long till we dock and you can kiss your ground.”

Rogar would have bristled at the brusqueness of the comment, for he was just as much at home on the water and on dry land, but it was the third time he had questioned the man, so he held his tongue. Lord Torrhen stirred and turned to look at him. The man was as eerily calm as he was always like to be, with a straight back and with his hands folded stoically behind his back. Rogar could just make out his placid smile and the wrinkles around his green eyes.

“Leave the man to his work, Rogar. He wouldn’t doubt your skills ahorse or with a sword, and you shouldn’t doubt his at the helm.”

“Yes my lord”

With that Lord Torrhen turned back to face what Rogar could only assume was the direction of the harbor in front of them. As they sailed slowly through the lurking fog, Rogar began to hear the noises of the harbor ahead of them. He heard the cry of gulls and merchants, the occasional ring of a hammer, and the creaking of docks and ships being walked on. Soon, Rogar saw shadows emerge from the fog. In front of their ship on the right, he could make out the low slung profiles of several fishing sloops bobbing in the water, crawling with fishermen readying their ships for the day. On their left, Rogar finally spotted the source of the curdling smell that still wafted around them. Looming above both the waterline and their own boat was the hulking shadow of a large whaling ship. On the deck of said ship, Rogar could make out the shrouded mass of a dead whale, surrounded by the flittering shadows of gulls and men, as both worked to harvest the monstrosity. In front of them, the low main dock of the port emerged from the fog. The dock was studded with various cleats and pylons and looked slick from seawater, but it seemed to be well organized. Rogar spotted people standing at the furthest end of the dock, their profiles unmoving as the shadow of a banner hung limply above their heads. _That must be our warm welcome_.

Rogar’s thoughts were interrupted when he felt a gentle shudder go through the ship as they bumped into the dock. He spotted several sailors jump from the ship with rope in hand to secure it, as others worked to tie the gangway in place. He sighed contently and released his death grip on the deck’s railing. Rogar turned his gaze back towards the helmsman as he heard Darin’s guffaw.

“Got ye here as whole as the day you were born, Ser.”

Rogar only had time to give the man an annoyed shake of his head before Kennet stormed onto the deck. The man wore his typical guardsman’s garb, with a dark grey cloak draped over his wide shoulders. The whiskers of his grey-black mustache glistened with the morning fog, and his eyes were currently roving about the deck; going from Lord Torrhen to Artos, then to Rogar and Derin before settling again on their lord. Kennet had his red and black helm in the crook of his left arm while his right hand gripped the hilt of his sword.

“We are ready to debark when you are, my lord.”

“Let’s not make Lord Cutting wait anymore than we have to.” Lord Torrhen replied as he began to walk past Kennet and down the stairs to the main deck. Artos walked closely beside his father as Rogar and Kennet brought up the rear. When they approached the gangway, ten guardsmen led by Sers Darron and Alaric soon joined behind them. As they reached the dock, Rogar noted that their companion ship had docked behind them and was already offloading men and supplies.

The deck may have been wet, but Rogar kept his footing as he followed his lord and squire towards their waiting welcome. As they approached, Rogar was able to pick out details of those waiting for them. The first thing he saw was the blood red moon banner of House Cutting hanging limply in the foggy air. Soon the spectres of people began to flesh out. The first person he saw stood rigid in front of the rest. He was neither tall nor short. The man was standing as still as the pylons that surrounded them, and was leaning on a halberd that he gripped in front of himself with both hands. _It must be Lord Cutting himself_. There was a cloak of dark blue wrapped around his wiry shoulders, with what Rogar thought was fish scale armour beneath. Lord Cutting had a wide sword belt with a short curved blade secured to it. He had long wispy brown hair and a thick beard, both of which were tinged with grey.

Beside Lord Cutting stood what Rogar assumed was his wife. Lady Mara Cutting stood just as rigid and still as her husband, with her hands clasped in front of her. She wore a thick northern wool dress, with red accents set against dark blue. Her long, blonde hair contrasted with every other color in his sight. As they drew even closer, Rogar noted that both had stern expressions seemingly set in stone. On Lord Cutting’s other side, Rogar spotted who he assumed was Morren Cutting, Maynard’s heir. Rogar only knew Morren by reputation and rumor, but even that was not a sure thing. He knew that Morren was a similar age to him, and that he was a quiet man, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Morren seemed to inherit his hair from his mother, while every other feature on the wiry man belonged to his father. Suddenly Lord Torrhen came to a stop in front of him, ending Rogar’s short lived examination of their hosts.

Lord Cutting stood up straight in front of his lord, and shifted his halberd to his right hand. He beckoned behind him and a servant darted from the fog, carrying a loaf of bread and a small bowl of salt.

“Cutting’s Hollow is your’s, Lord Vader, Lord Artos. Come, take my bread and salt, and share my hearth. Tell me what I can do for you.”

Rogar was surprised by the man’s deep, rolling voice. He assumed that it was one that easily held attention on the battlefield or across stormy seas. Lord Torrhen broke the bread and sprinkled salt on it, before passing it to Artos. After doing the same as his father, Artos passed the loaf and bowl back to him. The bread was sweet and thick, and Rogar could tell it was freshly baked. He felt his stomach grumble, but he resisted the urge to eat more and passed the bread and salt to Kennet. Kennet took them with a knowing smile on his face.

“Thank you for the hospitality Maynard. I look forward to a warm fire and a hearty meal. Who should my men talk to for lodgings?”

Rogar soon tuned out the following conversation, as the guardsmen were Kennet’s responsibility. He noticed that the fog was beginning to break up, and Rogar began to glimpse what was past Lord Cutting and his party. First behind them was the stout timber wall of the port, where he could occasionally see shrouded guardsmen making rounds. Although the wall obscured most of his view, Rogar could see the hazy profile of the small mountains which surrounded the town. He was brought out of his lull when he heard his name mentioned in the conversation.

“Aye, well met Ser Rogar.” Lord Cutting was staring right at him, “Your father is a good man, and you must be too, if Lord Torrhen trusts you with his son.”

Rogar nodded and gave the lord a small smile. “Well met my lord.”

With that Lord Torrhen stirred and glanced behind them at their ships. Rogar followed his gaze and noticed that most of their men and supplies were now on the dock, and were stirring about aimlessly now that their work was done. It seemed that Lord Cutting got the message, as he signalled again to the men behind them, and mounts were brought forward for them.

“The walk is not long, but I will not have any Vaders only walking through my streets.”

Rogar and Kennet were lucky enough to also receive mounts, but both Darron and Alaric were left without. He flashed them an apologetic smile as they fell in at the front of the column of guardsmen. As they walked their horses through the gates of the town, more familiar smells wafted over Rogar. They were the smells of a town on the water. They didn't remind him of Breaktyde, as the winds there usually chased away the smells, but of the small castle town of his first home at Headwater Keep. He smelled fish in various states; cut, cooked, raw, and rotten. He smelled the distant smell of a bakery, likely off on one of the small mud side streets. He smelled the dampness that clung to everything around them, from the wooden huts to the livestock near the docks. He smelled the wood-smoke in the air, and the horse shit in the streets.

Rogar heard the sound of laughter and the slosh of small steps in the mud behind him, and turned on his horse to take a look. He saw a short line of a few young boys marching in the mud beside the road, in line with the marching guardsmen. They were each trying to trip the one in front of them, and by the look of mud on their clothes, it wasn’t the first time they had played in the mud that morning. Rogar looked back ahead and noticed another child, this time a girl, leaning up against the side of the butcher’s shop up the street. She was staring at their group, mouthing something as her eyes scanned down their line of men. When she made eye contact with Rogar, her face went blank and she darted around the corner into a dark and muddy alley. _Odd_. He turned to Kennet, who was also staring at the now empty space in the alley. Noticing his gaze, Kennet only gave him a small shrug. Before Rogar could think on it more, Lord Cutting began speaking again in front of them.

“The town may seem empty now, but that’s just the hour of the morn. All our longshoremen and sailors are down at the docks or on the sea, and our shepherds and cattlemen are still out in the hills. Even missed the loggers heading out no more than a half hour before you docked.” He followed the statement with throaty chuckle. “Aye, Cutting’s Hollow rises early.”

Lord Torrhen took a glance around before replying. They were quickly running out of town on the cobbled road, but the fog still hid the keep Rogar assumed was ahead of them. “It’s hard to imagine much work happening with this fog.”

“One gets used to it my lord. Besides, the fog should burn out before we reach the keep.”

The morning sun, acting true to Lord Cutting’s words, soon shone over the low mountaintops to the east and burned the fog away. Rogar could now see the stony` profile of Hollowhold above the few remaining shops and hovels on their path. The keep was nestled in the back corner of Cutting’s Hollow, where hills began to rise from the valley floor. When the path was finally clear of buildings, Rogar got a good look at the keep’s low stone walls and its high, octagonal towers. It did not have a central keep, but the gatehouse was large. Rogar assumed that was where the lord’s quarters were located. After they rode under the large iron portcullis and through the ironwood doors of the gatehouse, servants trotted into the cobbled courtyard to take their horses to the stables. Lord Cutting soon bid them into the great hall, a large stone building facing the gatehouse across the inner ward. There Rogar met with Alaric and Darron, as well as Sers Valon and Byron, who had joined them from their other ship. They sat with Kennet and the other senior guardsmen at one of the lower tables, while Lords Torrhen and Artos ate with the Cuttings at the high table.

They were served Codfish stew and warm, thick bread, with a dark northern ale to wash it down, and were soon joined by several of Lord Cutting’s knights. They wore fish scale armor similar to their lord’s, and their shoulders’ were emblazoned by the odd crying heart tree face of Cutting’s Hollow. They talked of their travel and the storms that had rocked Breaktyde as they ate, and the knights of Hollowhold shared stories of sea battles and the vicious storms that blew through their town in years past. Throughout the meal, Rogar kept an eye on both Lord Torrhen and Artos, who seemed to be doing fine, if a bit overwhelmed by all that was going on about him. Soon, Lord Torrhen finished his meal and beckoned Rogar to the high table.

Before Rogar could ask what he could do for him, Lord Torrhen turned and spoke to Lord Cutting.

“Thank you for the meal and the hospitality Maynard, but it is time that we discuss why I am here, alone.”

Lord Cutting’s already somber and hard face took an even more serious light as he nodded. “Aye, we can go to my solar for more privacy.” The lord glanced at his son and heir before continuing, “Mayhaps Morren can take Artos and Ser Rogar on a tour of the castle while we talk.”

“That will work.” Lord Torrhen responded as he began to get up from the table. It seemed that he was eager to get down to business. He wondered if his lord shared his unease when it came to the Monts and their bandit problems. Even after spending the majority of his life with Lord Torrhen, it was still hard for him to read the man.

Rogar nodded and excused himself before returning to his table. He gave Alaric instructions on settling the knights in and then quickly made his way out of the courtyard, where Ser Morren and Artos were waiting for him. The quiet man nodded in greeting, while Artos shifted slightly to stand closer to him.

“I know my father wanted me to take you on a tour of the castle, but most of our castle is boring and practical,” his stoic face broke into a small smile before he continued, “I am sure he wouldn’t mind if I tested the mettle of a Knight of Breaktyde and his squire, before I showed you the most unique feature of our humble castle.”

Artos seemed excited by Morren’s words and looked up at him expectantly. Rogar would be glad to spar, but the last part of Morren’s statement had him confused.

“The most unique feature?”

Morren’s small smile grew larger as his eyes brightened, “Aye, Hollowhold is one of two castles in the North built over hot springs. We have hot water pools as well as cellars under the ground here.”

How could he forget that? As a child he had received the same education as his older brothers, and that included information on most of the castles of the North. The Cutting’s had always taken pride that they were the first of Brandon Snow’s bannermen to receive a castle, and that the one that they were gifted sat over hot springs. Artos was even more excited now, and Morren’s small smile had grown into a conspiratorial one.

Rogar nodded enthusiastically, “Aye, Ser, that sounds like a good plan.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Torrhen makes preparations and reflects.

**Cutting’s Hollow**

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**290**

**Lord Torrhen II**

One of the first things that Torrhen’s father taught him about lordship was to know which of his bannermen he could trust, and which of them he had to pretend to trust. It was that knowledge that had saved their family time and time again in the past, and Torrhen meant to make full use of it now. In fact, up until a year in the past, Lord Cutting had been on his “pretend to trust” list. Torrhen had tasked Maynard with guarding the North’s west coast against potential Ironborn attack during the Rebellion, and the man had harbored anger against Torrhen for making him miss the battles that occured in the south. That changed when he tasked Cutting’s ships to lead the vanguard into battle against the Ironborn, and later when Torrhen let his men join the storming of Pyke. Now the grizzled lord, whose solar he currently sat in, followed Torrhen’s lead like a newborn calf. It was the end of their second day in Cutting’s Hollow, and they had received messages from the last of Lord Cutting’s lords and landed knights, all of which reported no signs of banditry in their lands.

It was all part of the illusion his father had taught him to maintain. He would never officially doubt Lord Mont’s claims of banditry, nor even question them, as that would diminish the facade of trust. Instead, Lord Cutting was simply checking on the security of his borders and the well-being of his people. He would ask Lord Gaffen to do the same in Market Town, and he would likely insist on some stops between there and the Ironfort to ask the locals. It was simply prudence.

He saw Lord Cutting scowl from across the odd driftwood desk that sat between them. The man was holding another letter between his calloused fingers, the warring green horses of Gaffen on the seal. The dancing light and shadow from the hearth to their side made it difficult to read at this hour, and Maynard was squinting at the parchment, as if the words on the paper could be intimidated into revealing themselves. Torrhen waited patiently for the man to finish reading the note. It would do no good to insult the man by demanding immediate information. Finally, Lord Cutting grunted and put down the letter with a finality that did not bode well for its contents.

“It’s unrelated to our current business,” with that Maynard swept his hand across the large desk, which was currently littered with letters from various lords, “but it is bad news nonetheless. Gaffen says that the storms you dealt with headed southeast after landfall. He says that there were landslides along the Winding Forks and that the river is nigh impassible beyond Market Town.”

That was bad news. It meant that they would have to debark and march the rest of the way to the Ironfort. It would also mean they would be exposed to ambush by bandits along the entire journey. No, this was not good news at all.

“If I may be so bold, my lord,” Torrhen nodded without knowing what the man was going to say, as he could use any advice at the moment, “the way I see it, you have to choose one of three options;” Lord Cutting held his weather-beaten hand up with only his gnarled pointer finger extended, “One, you discard this endeavour all together, go back to Breaktyde with your tail between your legs, and let all of your bannermen laugh at you behind your back. Not that I could ever imagine you taking this course, my lord.” Cutting shuffled nervously in his seat, obviously only now realizing the unintended insult.

Torrhen broke his iron gaze with the man to give him a small smile while indicating with his hand for the man to continue. “Two,” he punctuated this by sticking out his scarred thumb, “you and your men wait here at the Hollow while the river is cleared, and then sail easily up the river to the Ironfort. Although that might take weeks. Or three,” his bony middle finger was the last to come up, “you sail to Market Town, debark, and march to the Ironfort while praying to all the gods in the North that no bandits take advantage of your exposed position.”

Torrhen nodded at the older man. It seemed that Lord Cutting understood the awkward position in which Torrhen found himself. As he was never one for exposing weakness in front of his vassals, he was glad that he wouldn’t have to outright explain it to the man. What really irked Torrhen was the fact that Gaten Mont most likely also knew of Torrhen’s problem. Whatever awaited him on the path to the Ironfort, Torrhen knew that he could not take any of the routes that Lord Cutting had laid out for him. There had to be another way to thread the loup of fulfilling his duties while keeping his men and his son safe. His son.

Torrhen wished he could send Artos back to the safety of Breaktyde, but by now it was simply too late. His men and bannermen wouldn’t take it well, and he couldn’t outright show his hand to the Monts. Nevermind what Artos himself would think of being dismissed. Torrhen had been so concerned with his son’s changed nature and so desperate to curb the boy’s melancholy that he put both of them in a dangerous situation. The only way Torrhen could get Artos out of this quagmire was to smuggle him back to Breaktyde in secret. In secret. As if it were revealed through a flash of lightning, Torrhen knew what path he would take.

Torrhen felt a smile stretch across his face as he turned to Lord Cutting, who had been waiting patiently as Torrhen thought and stared into the fire. Now Torrhen held his hand aloft, with four of his fingers stretched out. Lord Cutting raised a single waspy eyebrow and looked at his hand quizzically.

“There is a fourth option, Maynard, but I will need your help.”

\----

They planned throughout the rest of the night, and made preparations through the next several days. It took time for Lord Cutting to call men from the outskirts of his land, from landed nights and distant bannermen, men who wouldn’t be easily missed or noticed. Those men would never be spotted by any in Cutting’s Hollow, as there were simply too many people passing through for Torrhen to trust word not getting out. Those men were currently camping in the hills north of the town, and the men standing in front of him were soon to meet them.

That was how Torrhen found himself standing in the quiet and somber courtyard in front of the northern gates of Cutting’s Hollow. It was the hour of the wolf, and Torrhen found himself struggling with sleep, as if the night reached to influence him from the dark sky and the stalking shadows. Above him the waning moon cast a ghostly and pallid light amongst the closed buildings and empty stalls that surrounded the deserted square on three sides. In front of Torrhen, the timber and earthen walls of the town stood tall and grim, darkening the courtyard more effectively than even the night sky. The sight of the walls seemed to shadow every part of the town, following Torrhen about as if an assurance of his safety. It didn’t work.

The only sounds that could be heard were the shuffling of men and horses as they silently prepared for their dark ride. Mutterings broke the din of shallow noises on Torrhen’s left side, and he turned to see Lord Cutting and his son huddled closely together, giving each other their goodbyes. They quickly clasped arms, and Ser Morren turned to face Torrhen. The quiet young man was dressed in a flowing blood red cloak, their family’s traditional fish scale armor underneath. Ser Morren was wreathed in shadow, the details of his face only revealed to Torrhen through the occasional glimmers of pale moonlight. Even just through those glimpses, Torrhen could tell that the man was nervous. He reached out and grabbed the young knight’s shoulder and gave him a smile.

“I trust you have heard all the important details of your mission?”

“Aye, my lord, you and my father have have been very thorough.”

Torrhen nodded before cocking his head slightly to the side. “I trust that you understand the importance of your task?”

Ser Morren nodded, but Torrhen noticed the flicker of doubt that passed through his features.

“I trust that you have all the proper training befitting of your station?”

The youth straightened his shoulders and puffed with pride. “I have been trained by the best knights of our order, and have learned from my father since before I could walk, my lord.”

“Then I trust you with this mission, Ser Morren. Stay unsighted and travel fast, but do not exhaust your men or horse. We will be waiting for you five leagues north and west of Market Town, at the spot your father chose. Go forth and lead your men.”

“Aye, my lord, you will not be disappointed.” With that Ser Morren turned away from Torrhen and strode towards his men. He noticed that the young man now walked with more confidence and spring in his step. Without uttering a word, Morren swiftly swung onto his mount, and his five and ten men-at-arms immediately moved to follow. With little noise and no fanfare, the six and ten mounted men rode through the gates and out into the beyond. They would meet with the five and seventy camping in the hills and immediately begin their ride east. Torrhen could scarcely follow their progress for long, however, as none of the riders bore torches. Lord Cutting had assured him that each of those men knew the lands around Cutting’s Hollow like the back of their hands, and would need no light other than the moon to guide them.

After the north gate closed, Lord Cutting led their small party on a winding route back to the Hollowhold. Although they walked through narrow paths and dark alleys to avoid any undue attention, Torrhen could spot nary a light or a soul among the clustered huts and dark shops they passed. As he silently followed Lord Cutting, Torrhen tried to square the image he had now of Cutting’s Hollow with the memories he had of a previous visit.

That visit had been nigh on five and twenty years in the past. At the time he was returning from the Riverlands with his new betrothed in tow. Before his trip, Torrhen had never met nor seen Alena Mallister, so his father decided that he would use the guise of guiding the Mallister family to Breaktyde for their wedding to get to know his future wife. Torrhen and his future good-brother Jason had quickly struck up a friendship, riding and hunting together in the lands surrounding Seagard, and later sparring together on the galley as they sailed to Branton. Looking back, Torrhen knew that he had been purposely avoiding his new betrothed, mayhaps out of propriety, but much and more likely out of nervousness. Unbeknownst to him at the time, Alena was not a woman to be ignored. Their travel time had been extended when they faced a fierce storm along the way, and found themselves docking in Cutting’s Hollow, their ships in serious need of repairs.

Being the young and amiable fellow that he was, Jason quickly included Maynard in their blossoming brotherhood, and together they had soon planned a hunting trip in the hills north of the Hollow. The same hills that Maynard’s son was currently riding through. The morning they were to set out for their hunt was the morning that Torrhen’s life was turned on its head. He still remembered the moment as clearly as when it occurred. Now, amidst the narrow and twisting walkways of the dark and sleeping town, Torrhen allowed himself to remember a much brighter moment.

_The northern courtyard of Cutting’s Hollow was bustling with activity. Amidst the constant cry of the gulls, Merchants hawked their wares, describing finely cut and cooked fish and beautiful jewelry befitting of royalty, whilst selling objects not befitting of such exuberant description. Just as he looked about, a group of herdsmen rode past them, most likely looking for the nearest tavern to quench their thirst. The heavy carcasses of several doe were stretched across the men’s saddles, and a fine layer of dust and dirt covered their faces. Before Torrhen could get another good look at the men, he and Jason were forced to nudge their mounts quickly to the side in order to avoid a bevy of scampering barefoot children as they chased a hoop down the cobbled street. Torrhen stifled a guffaw as he heard Kennet curse the “damned rascals” from behind him. After scanning the crowd, Torrhen spotted Maynard waiting for them in front of the gates, wearing the drab fish scale armor and dark blue cloak that Torrhen had quickly come to associate with the heir’s everyday garb._

__

__

_Maynard maneuvered his magnificent grey Gaffen-bred destrier through the crowds towards Jason and Torrhen, all the while wearing a magnificent smile. The golden morning light, which had burned the fog off the town hours before, lit upon Maynard’s hair, turning many of his long strands into a crown like golden brown. The man’s warm brown eyes darted back and forth between Jason and Torrhen, as if conveying their owner’s restlessness to get the hunt started. When he finally guided his horse beside Torrhen’s, Maynard lifted an arm from beneath his great cloak to point at the backs of the now distant herdsmen before speaking in his deep brogue._

_“Those men yonder say the hills to the north and west are swarmed with game. They saw no coyotes or wolves prowling, and they’re like to be spreading that story to all their friends. If we don’t want to be chasing away the smallfolk, we best get moving soon.”_

_From Torrhen’s side, Jason nodded emphatically._

_“By the gods then man, let us get a move on it. Besides, I want to see if all you northmen are as fit of trackers as Torrhen and Kennet.”_

_Maynard’s face was quickly taken over by an exaggerated frown as he made to reply. “No, not all northmen,” just as quickly the frown morphed into an equally exaggerated and gregarious grin, “just those of us in the west!”_

_The sound of Kennet’s chuckle from behind Torrhen gave him the desire to ask his friend what his thoughts were on his new noble companions. Although he had been Torrhen’s friend since childhood, Kennet was always wary of other nobles, and was usually a good judge of character. Torrhen couldn’t ask, as Kennet was currently riding behind them, giving deference to his official role of “personal guardsman”._

_“Torrhen Vader!” The call came from Torrhen’s left, and when he looked he saw a commotion in the crowded square. Slowly, two purple garbed guardsmen and a lady lady wrapped in skirts of silver and violet pushed their way through the crowds and came to stand in front of Torrhen and his friends. The lady was flushed, either from anger or exhaustion, and by the tone of the earlier cry, Torrhen figured on the former. By the colors of her dress, Torrhen knew she was his betrothed. By her anger and by Jason’s poorly hidden grin, Torrhen knew he was in trouble._

_“Well hello my la-”_

_“I do not want to hear any ‘my ladys’ when you have treated me as anything but!”_

_Torrhen could feel his blush as he shifted uneasily on his horse. His indignant reply caught in his throat, as she was justified. All he could do was stare at the bold woman who was to be his wife._

_“Well, I thought the matter was settled, but you have confused things, Lord Torrhen. Are you betrothed to me, or my brother?”_

_Torrhen’s blush deepened. Jason’s hidden smile quickly turned into a pronounced frown. His ever present guardian inched his horse closer in support. Whatever emotion Maynard felt was well hidden, while his gaze swept from Torrhen to his betrothed and back again. His first reaction was simply a huff. The boldness of this woman left him speechless. Although he did not know Alena well, he assumed that the woman was not serious with her accusation, just angry at being ignored. Shame washed over him as he realized the consequences of his immature actions. He resolved to do better. He would do his duty._

_“I am sorry my lady, your...confusion was well founded. My priorities have clearly been misplaced. Would you like to go riding on this fine morning?”_

_“Yes my lord, I would very much enjoy to do that. We might even be able to get to know each other. ”_

_Torrhen nodded at the subtle rebuke. He found it quite difficult to be angry at this beautiful, passionate woman. Alena turned her attention to her brother._

_“Jason, father would like to speak with you, after your hunt, of course.”_

_Jason’s face paled, and Torrhen felt sorry for him. It was not his fault that he was shy towards Alena. Torrhen reached over and patted Jason’s shoulder._

_“Enjoy the hunt with Maynard, I will talk to your father” Torrhen whispered to his friend. He received a nod in turn, before both Jason and Maynard nudged their horses and rode hastily towards the gates. Alena had routed them, then._

_“Would you like a ride back to the Hold, my lady?”_

_Now it was her turn to blush. It seemed the boldness of her actions had finally sunk in. “Not in this dress, my lord, although the walk is not long.”_

_Torrhen dismounted from his destrier before handing Kennet the reins. His friend only quirked an eyebrow at him before turning both horses and trotting up the cobbled road toward the Cutting’s castle._

_“Then I will walk with you.” The smile Alena gave him in return was genuine, and she quickly took the arm Torrhen offered her. Her hand was warm, as was her gaze. He would do his duty, yes, but he would enjoy it too._

Torrhen and Alena would spend the next few days exploring Cutting’s Hollow and its surrounding lands. As they explored, they shared everything with each other. Their loves, desires, hopes, and dreams were shared, along with stories about their respective childhoods and families. By the time they were ready to set out for Breaktyde, they believed they were in love.

The memories were painted in golden sunlight and the warmth of a budding relationship. It contrasted with the chilly gloom of the alleyway in which he was currently walking. Torrhen shivered but he was not cold. Memories could only give him some comfort, but like all things, they must end. The comfort of his memories came with the sharp pain of forgetfulness. In his memories he could see her glowing chestnut hair and hear the crystal tone of her laugh, but her face eluded him. Artos was his last remaining piece of her, and in the boy’s face he could sometimes see his Alena, but that did not bring her back. Whether from grief or time or both, in his memories the love of his life was more an idea than a person.

\---

The next day came too quickly for Torrhen, but even as the Lord of Breaktyde and Warden of the Western Shore, he could not delay the rise or fall of the sun. The cold water in the basin by his bed washed the sleep from his eyes and the remnants of a dream from his mind. Torrhen lit a small taper in the still red coals of his hearth before using it to light several candles in his room. He dressed in the warm and sputtering orange light, putting on his usual dark wool shirt and pants, before pushing his stockinged feet into soft leather boots. Next came the gambeson that was laid over a chair in the corner of the room. In the roving light and shadow, the heart tree faces on the gambeson shoulders winked and twisted, giving life to the ancient imagery. His sword belt came next, easing the odd sense of weightlessness one felt after wearing a sword for their whole lives. As he stretched and twisted out the kinks left in his body from his sleep, Torrhen enjoyed his last day in his lighter clothes. For the rest of the trip he would be donning his plate armor. Finally, before exiting his room, he swung on his massive shadowcat cloak and clasped it with a silver snarling version of his family's sigil.

The halls of the guest wing in the Hollowhold were empty of life at the early hour. Torrhen could hear the deep clicks of his boot reverberate when he entered desolate hallway, as the sharp noise echoed off the stone floor and the barren walls. Among the plain sconces set along the drab grey surface of the walls, only the one in front of Torrhen’s room was lit, likely by the unfortunate servant who had to be awake at an earlier hour than Torrhen.

Artos’ room was just one door down, but to Torrhen the distance felt greater. The boy seemed much more adjusted on this trip than he had at Breaktyde, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was _different_ about the boy. Ser Rogar told him that boy had great talent, and was taking his training very seriously. Artos continued his training even at the Hollowhold, working with the other squires under the watchful eyes of Maynard’s knights. The boy couldn’t even stay away from books, cutting a path straight to the small library in the keep after his training sessions. It wasn’t that Torrhen did not appreciate the change and sudden increased maturity of his son, it was that he had no idea know why.

Torrhen’s chest swelled as he sucked in a large breath and released it slowly. He would not make mountains out of molehills. Until Artos gave him a reason to be worried, Torrhen would try not to worry.

At least there was no sign of flickering candle light under the boy’s door. He would need the sleep he hopefully got, as today they were leaving Cutting’s Hollow.

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	6. Chapter 5: Warnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artos and Co continue on their journey towards Ironpoint, and the danger of the trip becomes more apparent.

**Artos V**

_The whipping mountain air was just as cold as he remembered. It whistled as it blew past, through, and over him, pushing and pulling on his hair and cloak like a thousand invisible freezing hands._

_His cloak._

_When Artos glanced down he noticed that instead of the thin windbreaker and modern coat that were the norm for this dream, he was wearing a thick and silky shadowcat cloak, layered over heavy wool shirts and a padded gambeson._

_He was trodding slowly through the deep snow and blasting wind, although he could not tell what direction he was heading. Unlike in his memories and previous dreams, Artos could not hear Mark calling his name, nor could he hear his brother’s cries of pain. The sound of the wind dominated his hearing just as the cold once again dominated his body. _

_Artos tried to stop his incessant trod through the drifts of snow, but his legs did not respond. Onward he went, plunging into the epic whiteness that surrounded him. Desperate, Artos looked down to the path he walked upon. For there was a path, unlike in his memories. The path was one of footprints, made by what seemed like modern boots, just like the ones he wore the day he died. In comparison to the prints, Artos’ own feet were small, barely filling a third of the old indentations in the snow. _

_Now Artos could feel the searing burn of the cold in his nostrils, his throat, his lungs. Artos’ every breath became a struggle, as if he was fighting the very chill itself each time he forced himself to swell his chest and suck in air. The pain and the cold were much worse than he remembered, and would have stopped him dead if his legs were still following his own will. But they were not, so he continued on the path._

_After what felt like hours in the timelessness of his dream, Artos finally came to the end of his path. Just like in his memories, his brother lay broken and crumpled on the ground in front of him, although now the body was lifeless. The glassy, frozen, and lifeless eyes were framed by the palest face Artos had ever seen. Mark’s visage was stuck in a rictus of pain and smeared with the brown of frozen blood. But his brother had died in peace, hadn’t he?_

_Without willing it, Artos’ gaze shifted to the body that lay beside his brother’s. He wanted to reel back, to shirk away and avert his gaze, but he was still locked into the will of the dream. Artos was forced to look upon his, or rather Jack’s body, in its lifeless and stiff form. Like his brother, his eyes were wide open and listlessly staring at the whiteness above, unseeing and frozen in death. Unlike Mark, his own face contained the serenity that matched how he remembered his final moments. _

_Although Artos had lived through his death many times in his dreams, he had never seen his own body. The lifelessness and fragility of his own frozen flesh horrified him. Even the serenity that his face showed was rendered feeble by his surroundings, as if it did not belong in the grim and shockingly cold environment._

_Artos felt himself walking again, past the bodies and past where his memories ended. Now he was on a different path, one not made by any human feet. From the few lessons on tracking that Kennet and Ser Rogar had already given him, Artos recognized the prints. They were those of a shadowcat._

_He had no idea where he was walking in the whiteness, but his legs continued to follow the path of the shadowcat. The frigid wind cut into his exposed skin like a thousand razors, yet for all that Artos wanted to stop walking and wake up, he was bound to the dream’s iron will._

_The first change Artos noticed was the sudden silence. The wind had stopped. In its absence, the thick veil of whiteness around him began to clear. The snow was still falling, but now it was coming down in fat flakes, dusting every inch of his body. Artos at first met the silence with relief, but to his astonishment the temperature began to drop even further._

_Artos’ path ended in what he could now tell was a small clearing, with dark trees densely crowding him on all sides. In the grim and overcast light he could see hundreds of paw prints, as if his quarry had stalked in uneven circles throughout the clearing. When Artos turned to look behind himself, he felt whatever blood was left in his face quickly drain. The shadowcat was still in the clearing. Stalking towards him. He tried to turn his feet and face the danger, but his legs would not respond. He was stuck glancing over his shoulder as the predator slowly tread towards him._

_The shadowcat looked like a mirror of his family’s sigil, with blood red eyes, fangs, and claws. The predator stared directly at Artos, as if it were sizing him up. The beast crept onward toward him, slowly getting closer. Artos wanted to look away, but he was convicted by the shadowcat’s eerie heart tree-esque eyes. Artos prepared to be struck down and eaten brutally, as his fear pushed away all rational thoughts._

_Instead, the shadowcat drew up beside him and began rubbing his leg, as if the large cat was claiming Artos as his own. Without thinking, he rubbed his hand along the predator’s sleek back. The shadowcat felt warm and welcoming, and for a single glorious moment Artos forgot about his frigid nightmare._

_Then the large cat tensed and let out a deep growl. Artos ripped his gaze away from the shadowcat and searched the treeline for the source of its ire. He could see very little amongst flurries of snow and the shadows cast by the now sinister looking frost laden trees. The temperature dropped even more, and now even the warmth of shadowcat was ripped from his touch._

_Suddenly, as if a cover were torn off or a light cast, Artos saw a pair of ice blue eyes peering through the shadows in his direction. _

\---  
**Cutting’s Hollow**

**290**

Artos woke up gasping for air and covered in a cold, clammy sweat. His blankets were tangled about him like a coiled snake, constricting and holding him in place. The mute red coals in his hearth and the dim pre-dawn shine from his window cast a pallid light throughout the room. Artos began untangling himself from his blankets as he tried to get his breathing under control. With those menial tasks, his panic slowly resided, and the fog of the dream faded away as the cold reality of day replaced it. 

Artos shivered as he freed himself from his blankets. Maybe there will be time to visit Hollowhold’s baths before we depart. He found himself standing as close to hearth as possible, his hands stretched out to absorb some warmth from the dying embers. He sighed in content as the warmth slowly oozed up his fingertips and through his arms. He finally felt completely safe and awake. 

Just as Artos turned his back to the hearth and began to pull on clothes, there was a sharp knock on his door. Before Artos could respond, the door opened and revealed his father on the other side. Lord Torrhen Vader stood at the cusp of Artos’ room in his full glory. His tall form was silhouetted by the torchlight, with his glinting sword handle and gleaming dark and white-striped shadowcat cloak. Everything about his image seemed to proclaim to anyone who saw him: Now this is a Lord. 

For a moment they held their silence, as Artos felt his father’s discerning gaze on him. Artos held still as they looked at each other, even with one arm in his shirt and his breeches untied. He felt the nervous tension build up in his body until he had the unquenchable urge to break the silence, to explain what he was doing even if his actions didn’t need any explaining. 

“I wa-”

“Good m-”

His father’s solemn face was broken with a small grin as he let out a low chuckle. 

“I should have waited after that knock, but I thought you were still asleep. You are getting older now and I imagine you will soon begin to value your privacy. Pack up your things and meet us in the hall. We leave for the docks at first light.”

“Yes father, I will be down shortly.”

Artos’ father nodded in response before shooting him what looked like more of a grimace than the intended grin. Before another sense of silence could develop between them, Lord Torrhen walked into the hallway and shut the door behind him. 

He sighed. Despite his father’s efforts at hiding it, Artos could tell the man was wary of their trip. If he is so worried, why is he still taking me? Did he not think there was danger, or was this some sort of baptism by fire? Shaking his head, Artos decided there were some things about Westerosi culture that he still didn’t understand. He would have to be patient and gauge the mood of their men. His father did not need to think that he was scared. 

Artos pushed his mind from the difficult topic and glanced about his room. In the pallid light he quickly spotted his few changes of pants and shirts, as well as his wool gambeson and cloak. His boots and the wooden sparring sword his father gifted him on his eighth nameday already rested near the door. Other than that he had his new knife and a dark leather swordbelt with stalking shadowcats stitched in silver. He really didn’t have much to pack. That was another thing he had to get used to in this world. He didn’t have many possessions, and what he did have was mostly practical. It was a sharp contrast to the consumerist society of his first life. 

After getting dressed and packing his things, Artos made his way out of the guesthall and found himself in the middle of the bustle of the main courtyard. There were servants running to and fro, carrying all sorts of supplies, both Vader and Cutting men-at-arms making last second checks to their supplies, and even some knights doing a bit of last minute training. 

By following the sounds of barking orders carrying across the courtyard, Artos was able to quickly locate the steward of the keep. Although he didn’t know the old man, his peering grey eyes quickly discerned who Artos was. 

“Lord Artos! What can I help you with?”

All the deferential treatment he had received recently put him on edge, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, so he swallowed his discontent and made to reply. 

“Ah yes Ser, all my things are packed and ready to be loaded on the ship.”

“Of course, my lord, it will be handled.”

Artos gave his thanks and quickly made his way through the rest of the ward and into the great hall. Like the activity outside, the hall was bustling with servants, men-at-arms, and knights, with many sitting at the lower tables and chatting gregariously with their companions, both old and new. The hearths set in the wall cast a warm orange glow throughout the hall, and the candles set in wooden holders covered in old melted wax sent spirals of smoke into the rafters above. 

He spotted his father sitting in the seat of honor next to Lord Maynard, with Lady Mara presiding on his other side. His father and the dour looking lord were deep in conversation, so the Lady Mara was the first to spot him. She beckoned him over to the empty seat beside her. 

Artos sat down and was surprised when the lady, whose manner usually matched her husband’s, smiled warmly at him. 

“You must be hungry, Lord Artos.”

The shock of his dream and the odd interaction with his father distracted him, but as soon as smells of the warm ham and fresh bread in the hall wafted over him, Artos remembered his hunger. 

“Aye my lady, I am famished.” 

Before responding, Lady Mara gestured with her hands and Artos immediately saw a servant duck out of the great hall and into the kitchen. 

“You have such good manners; when my Morren was your age he would hardly speak to a soul before he broke his fast.”

Artos gave her a polite smile as a servant placed a plate of ham and warm dark bread in front of him. The large cut of ham was drizzled with some sort of unfamiliar sauce, but Artos was not a discerning individual when it came to food. He quickly tucked into his meal, with barely a mind for manners. The sauce tasted like gravy, and reminded him of the home from his old memories. 

As he ate his meal, Artos barely listened to Lady Mara, giving her polite nods and smiles but hardly digesting her words. He kept an eye on the entrance to the hall and his thoughts kept straying to his dream. It confused him. Was it just errant and nervous thoughts manifesting themselves, or something more? Artos knew the reality of the blue eyes, but it was hard to imagine the coming icy apocalypse at the beginning of the long summer. 

Artos chased away those cold thoughts with another slice of ham and the tempting idea of the hot spring baths. As he finished his meal, Artos realized he would have no time for one more dip in the cleansing and mind-clearing hot water. How unfortunate. 

Lady Mara spoke to him again, and this time Artos heard and understood her words.

“It looks like your father is ready to leave. You’d best be ready when he is.”

Artos nodded and stood. “Thank you for your kindness and your conversation, my lady.” The lady smiled briefly but then looked at Artos with a concerned look on her face. “You be careful Lord Artos. I know it seems like an adventure to you, but please keep watch over your father and my husband for me.” The look of concern morphed into one of sadness, of an old wound. “You are young, but danger and despair don’t wait for people to come of age.” 

He knew that more than most. Artos felt awkward and hollow as he gave the woman what ended up a stolid thanks and goodbye. By the look of things, it would be a long day. 

\--- 

**Winding Forks River**

Artos leaned against the rail on the edge of their river boat, watching the muddied water slowly flow by. Beside him, Lord Cutting was softly humming in his deep baritone as he sharpened the blade on his halberd. 

The rough lord had asked Ser Rogar if he could spar with Artos on their trip, and spar with him he had. He had been thoroughly trounced over and over, but Lord Cutting seemed to look at him with more respect, as if now he suddenly existed as more than just an extension of his father. The man was surprisingly deft and disconcertedly gentle with his weapon of choice, and Artos thought that he would have less bruises the next day than he usually did when he sparred with his knight. 

The humming beside him stopped as Lord Cutting spoke up. 

“You’re not like most other boys I’ve known and seen in a spar. Most of ‘em, they come charging in, swinging wildly and with what they think are strong strokes, trying to copy their fathers.”

Artos turned to look at the weathered man. Lord Cutting was looking at him with a wry smile on his face, waiting expectantly for a reply.

“And me?”

The man stretched his rough hand across the space between them and tapped Artos’ forehead sharply. 

“You use your head.” Lord Cutting paused as he let out a whisper of a laugh, “Or at the least you try to. Don’t think I didn’t notice, boy. I saw you watching me before our spar, and I noticed the thought put behind your moves. I saw how you adjusted your methods after defeat. It didn’t help you today, but it’ll help keep those guts inside you someday.” 

Artos was saved from making a reply by Lord Cutting’s laughing amusement at his own morbid remark. Artos tried to plaster a smile on his face. If it could be called a joke, he didn’t think it was funny. Ever since he had gained his new memories, Artos had been secretly terrified of combat in this world. Nothing he had lived through as Jack prepared him for armed medieval combat. The casual boxing he did in high school and college came the closest, but nonetheless paled in the scale of violence. He had already figured out ways to translate some of the footwork and body movement from boxing into sparring, but there was no translation for killing at close quarters with shar-

Lord Cutting’s hand patting his shoulder broke him from his thoughts. 

“Lighten up boy! Your father’s knights are the best in the North, mayhaps even the realm, and Ser Rogar is high among them. He’ll teach you well, so one day you won’t be worried about your insides ending up on your outside.”

Artos looked at him skeptically, as he doubted he would ever not be worried about that in combat. 

“Don’t you doubt me Artos Vader. I saw your father in his youth. I see your potential. You will be quite the swordsman by the time you come of age.” He waved his hand in front of his face, as if fanning a bad smell away from his nose. “Besides, you’ve never seen war, boy. With all the excitement and rage, there’s no room to worry.”

Without another word the lord stood up and ruffled Artos’ hair. He left Artos no time to reply as he strolled down the deck, issuing orders to his men with deep baritone barks. 

Artos sighed as he turned back to look over the rolling green and brown hills on the north shore of the river. It had become his favored way to pass his free time on the ship. Every so often he would spot hovels and huts clustered near the shore, with skiffs and other small boats pulled up on the muddy banks. From his lessons with Maester Luca, he knew that there were many such villages nestled on riverbanks throughout his family’s lands.

Those people lived and died, generation after generation, working their land, herding their cattle, and fishing their small part of the many rivers and streams that flowed throughout the Vader demesne. They did not care for the politics of the realm, and probably not even the politics of the North, and yet somehow they owed their allegiance and even their lives to his father. 

Artos, or Jack more accurately, would have expected the smallfolk to hate his family, to hate his father. They were the aristocratic overruler whom modern society had taught him to despise. Yet wherever they went, the people almost deified his family. The Vaders had protected and cultivated this land, they had taken it from being near deserted to being one of the most productive areas in the North. Although the common people couldn’t know this big picture, Artos could tell they felt it in their hearts. 

A shadow fell over him. 

“You’re in your own head again.” 

It was Ser Rogar. He would have to find another place to brood if people kept coming to talk to him. 

“I don’t think there is another option.” 

Ser Rogar scoffed before replying, “That sharp tongue of yours is going to cut you one day.”

Artos merely shrugged and gave him a tepid smile in response. Ser Rogar had to have a reason to talk to him and Artos was too tired to weasel it out. Instead of replying, Ser Rogar fixed his blue eyed gaze and studied Artos. It seemed that the adults were doing a lot of that recently. 

His knight looked to have a thought on the tip of his tongue, but with a subtle shake of the head he dispelled it. Instead he muttered under his breath, of which Artos was only able to catch something about the “gods”. 

Artos raised his eyebrow in question, but instead of responding the imposing knight moved to lean over the ship’s rail, casting his shadow yet again over Artos. The young lord shifted uneasily in Ser Rogar’s presence, his patience running thin. After what seemed an age and a half, Rogar finally broke the silence. 

“Do you think this all a game?”

Artos gave the man a look of what he hoped looked to be annoyance. 

“Do I look like I am having fun?”

It was Ser Rogar’s turn to look annoyed. He reached down and patted Artos’ back a little too hard, knocking Artos’s teeth together and wiping his self-satisfied smile from his face. 

“Clever, boy, but you prove me right all the same.” 

Before Artos could respond his looming knight squatted and leaned over Artos until he could see the blond stubble on his freshly shaved face. After making sure Artos was giving him his full attention, Ser Rogar pressed on. 

“You are only a boy so I will let your attitude pass without chastising you any more, but I know you are a smart lad so I shall not repeat this. So hear me and listen well.” Rogar paused to gulp, and his eyes darted back and forth nervously. It was only then that Artos noticed the beads of sweat gathering on the knight’s brow, and the way his graceful fingers tapped brisk uneven notes on the rail of the ship. 

He continued, but his voice was a whisper, hoarse in its urgency. “As I am sure Maester Luca has taught you, we in the North are largely free from banditry from our own people. Merchants oft travel upriver from White Harbor to Winterfell, then through the depths of the Wolfswood with stops at Wood Creek and the Deepwood market, all the way to Headwater Keep with nary a trouble. They come from the Bloody Flinger, Torrhen’s Square, Barrowtown, hells, even from the Karhold and Queenscrown, with not a hair disturbed or a single good stolen. Yet Lord Gaten Mont,” he practically spat the name, “claims that organized bandits are stealing his shipments of iron and tax on their way to Breaktyde. That is a mummer’s farce of a spectacular order. There are no such organized bands of bandits in the North, let alone in Vader lands, where every man and boy is trained to wield a pike and take pride in their own and their fellows’ work.”

Artos raised his brows at Ser Rogar’s last statement. Everything else he said Artos already knew or assumed, but some sort of organized martial training for every man in Vader lands was certainly new information. Before he could ponder further or ask questions, Ser Rogar continued.

“Aye, it might surprise you that your father’s bannermen might lie to him or mean him harm, but such is the way of the world. This trip is quite a way to learn that, but learn it you will. This story of bandits could be true, but it would be a first and an unlikely one at that. Or, it could be Ironmen reavers left behind from their raids during their foolish rebellion. That, however, would require them to have avoided patrols from Lords Cutting, Gaffen, and even Mont for many a moon. No, what I and most of the men in your father’s service think, is that Lord Mont is trying to pull the wool over Lord Torrhen’s eyes. I know not what he means to gain with this, or how he means to get away with it, but the mummery is there. With our men, joined with Cutting’s men, and thos-” he paused, a hesitant look on his face, “and men Lord Gaffen may add, all marching up the Iron Road into Mont’s land, he will feel threatened, cornered mayhaps.” 

At this Ser Rogar moved even closer to Artos, so close he could smell the man’s leathers and the light ale on his breath.

“And a cornered beast is the most dangerous of all.”

The tall knight finally drew away, rising to his full height and offering his right hand to Artos. He took it and Ser Rogar lifted him to his feet. Now Ser Rogar patted him on both shoulders. 

“You are Lord Torrhen’s only son, and as such you are the future of the Vader family. I expect you to act that way. No more obvious moping or brooding, it is bad for the men’s morale.”

Artos felt himself lifting his chin and straightening his back.

“There you go, Lord Torrhen writ small. Act as a lord, and men will more likely treat you as such. As your knight I have sworn to protect and train you, but that does not mean I expect that I must do all the work. You must be vigilant and cautious. There is danger in our future.” 

Ser Rogar spun him around to face the prow of the ship, and the lands beyond. In the distance, he could see the clustered black specks of buildings, with thin wisps of white smoke smoke rising from them. Boats, sloops, and a single galley with green warring horses on its sails bobbed in the river near the buildings. Artos did not need to be told where they were, and instead spoke it softly to no one in particular. 

“Market Town.”

————————————————————


End file.
